


Teen Hearts

by flashlighted



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Foster Care Keith, I have beaten the comma to DEATH and I am still hitting the key, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith has anxiety, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Let Shiro rest 2k17, M/M, and a slew of other problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashlighted/pseuds/flashlighted
Summary: High school is stressful. Throw in intense exercise, high stakes competitions, stupid boys with dumb haircuts, and it only gets worse. The G. Garrison Ballet Academy is world renowned, and its end of the year showcase is famous. This year Lance is going to compete, no matter what. That is, if he and Keith don't strangle each other before they can get there.





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> I am heavily relying on google and my own 11 years of ballet experience for any and all #facts
> 
> This is gonna update monthly!! A big shoutout to bi_spying for beta-ing and also bc I wouldn't shut the h*ck up about this au for literal MONTHS
> 
> AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY LANCE <3
> 
> Ballet Terms 101, in order of appearance 
> 
> Vaganova Style- style of ballet which originated in Russia  
> Grand Battements- basically trying to lift the leg as high as possible, a quick movement  
> Développés- 'developed', draw the working leg up to the knee, then lift and unfold it  
> Adagio- slow tempo'd exercises  
> Allegro- quick tempo'd exercises  
> Reverence- the final exercise that acts as respect and acknowledgement to the teacher/examiner  
> Pique Turn- a traveling turn where the leg goes to the knee as one turns  
> Plie- bend of the knees; the first exercise done at the barre as a warm up  
> Waltz Step- three-step combination to the waltz tempo  
> Pirouette- Spin in place with foot of one leg placed to knee of the other. Double, triple etc just states how many revolutions there are  
> 

Mid-January

A drop of sweat rolls down Lance’s back, carving a path down his spine as he stands at his spot at the _barre_ , His posture is perfect, his turnout checked, and his head cocked the way the Vaganova style demands. He doesn’t dare to so much as glance at himself in the mirror, doesn’t dare look at the examiners as he waits for his turn to show his improvement. To plead via _petit battements_ and _développés_ that they let him keep his spot at the prestigious G. Garrison Ballet Academy.

End of semester evaluations hadn’t used to bother him. He’d danced through them with all the confidence and bravado he’d been able to muster, a smile on his face as he took the examiners by storm. Physicals, another part of the evaluations to make sure students were taking care of themselves properly, hadn’t bothered him either. And then last year had happened and wiped that all away. Lance had spent the first semester of freshman year on probation, tip toeing around a possible expulsion and pushing himself further than he’d known he was capable of going. He’d danced his way back into GGBA’s good graces for the spring semester and has stayed there for a year, but he still lives with the fear.

Another bead of sweat trickles down, following the same path as the first. Then it’s his turn, demonstrating his best in a silent bid for a placement at California’s premier dance school. Time warps after that, like someone’s hit the fast-forward button on Lance’s life. They fly through the _adagio, the allegro_ , the across the floor exercises. He finds himself in _reverence_ , the final exercise that acts as respect and acknowledgement to the examiners, and then his group is out of the room, another group of four dancers ushering into the space. 

Lance sits himself down, pulling off his ballet slippers in a automated motion he’s been doing since he was six years old. He goes through the mechanics of pulling a pair of jeans over his spandex dance shorts, slotting his feet into his sneakers, and pulling a coat on over his white uniform shirt, all without thinking. His head is elsewhere, though if asked he wouldn’t be able to say precisely where that is.

It isn’t until Pidge comes up to him, bumps him with her hip and says, “Hey, dweeb” that he begins to pull himself together.

“Hey, Pidgelette,” he says as he arranges his face into a broad grin. She frowns and buries her hands in her green and white hoodie, her dance bag thrown over her shoulder.

“Disgusting nicknames aside, how’d the eval go?”

“Good, I think,” Lance replies in a breezy tone that’s been carefully calculated, “I blacked out for most of it.”

“God, I wish I had,” Pidge groans, “I almost fell _twice_.” Lance winces sympathetically. They leave the changing room, trading the cramped, hot space for the cool air of the hallway. It’s still crowded, but the air is a little easier to breath. It's a little lighter without the weight of anticipation and dread. 

“Hunk’s evaluation isn’t until this evening, poor sucker,” Pidge says, bringing up their other best friend. They’ve all known each other since Lance and Hunk joined GGBA in eighth grade. Almost instantaneously they’d become friends, and had been terrorizing the staff of the academy ever since.

“Oof,” Lance says as he hikes his dance bag further up on his shoulder,“that’s fuckin’ rough. Better to get it over with as fast as possible.”

“Rip off the band-aid,” Pidge says with a nod. “I don’t think he really cares though. He seemed pretty relaxed this morning when I talked to him.”

“Can’t relate,” Lance says with a laugh.

“I bet you did great,” Pidge nudges him with her shoulder. Lance turns a full-wattage grin her way, before transforming it into a smirk.

“Aww, thanks Pidgey, I always knew you cared, somewhere deep beneath that cold exterior of yo- hey!” Lance starts to tease, but cuts himself off with an indignant squawk when a shoulder slams against his. It’s someone hurrying down the hall, not paying attention to where they’re going. How they managed to hit him, he’s got no idea, when the hallways are a good six feet wide.

“Well, excuse you,” Lance says loudly with a roll of his eyes. The person in question half-turns to throw a glance over their shoulder and _of course_ it’s Keith Kogane. Lance is a little surprised that he didn’t immediately recognize the stupid mullet. He scowls, the good mood that Pidge had been building completely flattened.

“Did you see that?” he hisses at Pidge, “There’s no way that was an accident.”

“Maybe they’re just not very coordinated?” Pidge turns her head, but it’s obvious she missed who the culprit was. Lance gives a longsuffering sigh.

“Pidge. My sweet summer child. This is GGBA, everyone is well coordinated,” Lance says as they turn down the hall towards the foyer, “And besides; that was _Keith _. He totally bumped me on purpose. Jerk.”__

“Lance, first of all, I have on good authority, aka my own eyes, that you spilled half a mug of coffee on yourself yesterday while you were standing still. And second of all, it’s _Keith_.” Pidge says, mimicking Lance’s emphasis, “Dude lives in his own world half the time.” 

“We swore never to mention the coffee incident,” Lance’s scowl deepens and he scuffs the toe of his shoe on the grey carpeting. Over the years, Lance has had loads of academic classes with Keith; it was bound to happen when there were only eighty kids per grade. They’d also had ballet classes together for one semester in ninth grade, and boy oh boy, had Keith made an impression on Lance. His expression becomes downright murderous at the memories of Keith, the Mulleted Wonder. 

“No, you swore never to mention it. Hunk and I did no such thing.” 

“That’s it,” Lance says and throws his hands up in the air dramatically, “I’m getting new friends.” 

“Good luck with that, since apparently everyone is a ‘rival’ or ‘nemesis’ now except for me and Hunk.” Pidge does air quotes around the words rival and nemesis, rolling her eyes as she quotes Lance verbatim. 

“Look, okay, Keith _is_ my rival and nemesis! I know that’s what you were trying to throw shade about, you gremlin. And you’re right; you and Hunk aren’t either of those things,” Lance pauses to pull out the word from his vocabulary that will have the best impact, “you’re frenemies.” 

“And you’re twelve,” Pidge wrinkles her nose up and laughs, shoving open the main doors. A wall of fresh air hits them and Lance breathes it in deeply. 

“Twelve outta ten, maybe,” Lance says with a wink. Pidge groans as Lance prods at one of her biggest pet peeves. 

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. There’s no point in having a scale if you’re just going to ignore it. There’s no sense in saying it’s out of ten if it clearly isn’t. It’s doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Ooh, someone’s a cranky math nerd,” Lance teases. He feels a bit lighter now than he did, the easy back-and-forth with Pidge helping to ease some of his stresses. 

“I’m hungry,” she states with a wave of her hand. “Wanna go to the caf and then play Mario Kart in the common area till someone yells at us?” 

“Is that even a question? Of course I do, Pidgelette.” 

“Lance, I swear to _god_." 

***

  
Lance had come back from summer break at Varadero Beach smelling like sunshine, with skin freckled and browned . The last school year had just been him dipping his toes in, getting a feel for the place. Eighth grade had been a trial run. Now Lance was sure in his footing and knew where he stood; he was fourteen and filled with the kind of confidence only a teenage boy could have. But there was a variable he didn’t know about, something he could never have anticipated.

Keith Kogane. 

G. Garrison Ballet Academy’s golden boy. Lance had heard whispers and rumours about him during his first year, but they’d never met. The way GGBA was organized meant that there were twenty students in each dance class, and there were four classes. Since there were eighty students per grade, it wasn’t odd that they’d never crossed paths. Lance had thought that maybe in sophomore year, when choreography students declared and the schedules moved around, they’d have class together. 

So he’d been pleasantly surprised when, during roll call of their first class of ninth grade, the name _Keith Kogane_ had been read off. He’d been perplexed when he’d seen who had silently raised their hand in response; a scrawny Korean boy with his hair in his face, sitting apart from the rest of the class. Lance squinted: Keith didn't look like much of anything, really. Maybe the rumours had been wrong? 

His best friend, Pidge Holt, had been sitting next to him and he’d whispered to her, “That’s Keith?” in a voice that was not as quiet as he’d meant for it to be. Pidge, who was starting her third year at GGBA to Lance (and Hunk’s) second, had elbowed him and hissed ‘yes, now shut up’. 

Lance had known that she knew Keith, that they’d been friends since she’d started attending in seventh grade. He’d also known that Keith had started at the earliest grade the school offered, sixth, and that Keith was one of the two students per grade that had a full scholarship. When Lance had heard that information, passed down in a middle school version of telephone, he’d been impressed. Lance himself was on a partial-scholarship, and he knew that GGBA gave out financial aid based on both need _and_ skill. He hadn’t qualified for the full ride on either count. Sometimes the thought of that would nag at him. 

After that first lesson had ended, Lance had made his way over to Keith, to introduce himself and just say hello. 

“Hey,” He’d said, and stuck out a hand, “The name’s Lance García-McClain.” Keith had looked up from shoving his stuff into a ratty black dance bag, and blinked twice. 

“Oh. Hi,” He’d said in response, then slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out, leaving a stunned Lance in his wake. And that was his first impression of Keith. 

It didn’t improve either; at every turn it seemed like Keith snubbed him. Attempts to chat at the _barre_ , a passing comment during a water break, all of it met with a nod and stoic silence. Lance didn’t understand; he’d thrown all the García-McClain charm at Keith that he was capable of, and it didn’t seem to stick. It was then he remembered Pidge saying the school year before, ‘ _if you can’t join them, beat them_. When she’d said it, he’d laughed at the switch on the idiom he’d heard so many times, but now he’d understood. Keith was going down. Lance had spent the rest of that semester doing his damnedest to outshine and upstage Keith. It was as competitive as class would allow, a rivalry even the teachers had picked up on. It reached the point of personal vendetta and then surpassed it. Pidge and Hunk had teased him relentlessly for it. And then first semester had come to an end in the blink of an eye and Keith was whisked away into another class. Lance had kept the rivalry alive in his heart though, waiting for a chance to renew it. No matter what. 

***

The weekend after exams at GGBA is a complex thing. The relief of being done both academic exams and the end of semester dance evaluations was mixed with the stress of not knowing the results of either. As a result, most students find themselves a bit of a mess by Sunday. It’s the only day of the week that there aren’t classes of some sort; even Saturday has a conditioning class, followed by a three hour afternoon class. All Saturday classes had been cancelled for the weekend, which was probably a leading cause in most students confusion. 

Sunday, however, finds Keith in the same place it always does. He’d learned a long time ago that not having a routine doesn’t suit him. The day is always divided up the same way; wake up, eat and then workout in the gym that was in the Iverson Building, followed up by lunch, and if he’s lucky, snagging a practice room and running through classwork. The evening is dedicated to supper and any outstanding homework. It’s jam packed, but Keith knows that’s what works for him; routine helps hold him accountable, keeps him grounded. Maybe it’s a bit boring, but being boring has never particularly bothered Keith. It’s a modified version of how he spends the weekdays, the timetable differing to account for classes and appointments but the activities staying the same. 

He goes through his warm up before wrapping up his hands and going to town on the punching bag. His therapist had suggested Keith take up boxing, and he was finding it much more enjoyable than he anticipated. There’s something calming about the focus and the rhythm and how the world seems to sharpen down to just him. It’s similar to how he feels when he dances; the world becoming more manageable. It feels like it’s just him out there, dancing for himself and for himself only. He’s simultaneously in his own head and pulled out into the world in a way that he can’t quite explain. Boxing is a little different, not as complete of an immersion into his own little world, but it’s something. It’s something. 

He works through his set, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he lands hit after hit. After a quick rest he repeats the set twice. When he’s done he feels a little clearer. There’s a stubbornness in him that’s annoyed a little at his therapist for being right, for knowing him so well. There’s also a rational part in him that says _of course she does, it’s her job to_. He unwraps his hands, goes through a quick cool-down, and showers. He moves through his schedule for the day, not rushing but unrelentless. He stops outside the caf to check the listings and there’s his name under the Honours List, the highest marking level. He nods once, then carries on. 

There’s a free practice room on the fourth floor of the Eris Building where all the dance studios are located. There’s thirty-five rooms total, not to mention the full stage and auditorium in the annex. Despite the numbers, it’s not uncommon to arrive and find that all the rooms are full. Typically, students are willing to share the studio space, but Keith prefers to not to if he can help it. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, but he’s happy to see there are plenty of open rooms. He’s sure it has something to do with it being the weekend after exams and many of the students taking the weekend off as a reprieve before classes start up again. Either way, he isn’t complaining as he plugs his phone into the AUX cable and hits play on his dance playlist. The first handful are typical songs he’s collected from instructors over the years that he uses to go over class exercises. After that though, the music transforms into other styles. Pieces he’s heard in performances, songs he’s found late at night lost down the rabbit hole of youtube, and everything in between. When the playlist gets to that point he likes to freestyle, play with the movement and the melody. He’s no choreographer and he doesn’t want to be, but there’s a joy in moving impulsively. His Sunday practice sessions are the only place where he breaks from the scheduled routine, but that’s a different type of routine in and of itself. 

He _pique_ turns across the room and gets lost in the music. 

***

The start of semester tends to be a chaotic mess. Keith has never understood why they rearrange classes halfway through the year when it would be far simpler to just...not. It seems like an unnecessary disturbance; new instructors, new studio spaces, new schedules, when it would be easier to keep it all the same. First thing in the morning on a Monday was difficult enough without having to factor in remembering which studio he was supposed to be in. 

Keith stands off to the side of the room as the as the instructor goes through roll call. Keith’s heard a lot about this guy from Shiro, the choreographer senior who has been his next-dorm neighbour for years. Apparently the instructor, Coran, was relaxed and relatively chill, especially by GGBA standards. Keith watches him wearily, Coran’s orange mustache bobbing as he calls out names energetically. Second semester of junior year is no time for a break or to take it easy. 

“Katie Holt,” Coran calls out, and Keith turns his attention to the groups of students that are gathered in front of the instructor. He hasn’t had a ballet class with Pidge in, god, three years. He perks up a little at that, and can’t help but smirk the slightest bit when she says, “Actually, I go by Pidge.” 

“Rightio,” Coran says with a crisp nod and makes a scribbly note on the attendance sheet. He continues, making short work of the admittedly already short list of students. Keith says ‘yeah’ when his name is called, and slowly makes his way over to where Pidge is standing. She’s talking quietly to two tall boys next to her, her hands buried in the pocket of her hoodie, while the boy she’s talking to is gesticulating wildly. He looks very passionate about something; there’s a hard set to his jaw. Keith bumps his hip against Pidge’s arm and interrupts the conversation, but he hears the tail-end of whatever the dude is saying in a whiny voice. 

“...the fucking audacity honestly, he’s always trying to one up me,” he hisses, eyes narrowed in what Keith thinks might be distaste. 

“Hey, shortstack,” Keith says as Pidge turns to look at him. Her face lights up behind the large circle frames she wears. 

“Hey, taller-but-not-tall-stack,” she says with a grin that quickly turns into something much more sarcastic. “It’s been too long since we had a class together. I can’t wait to kick your ass again, Keith.”

“I think that’s _my_ line, actually,”one of the other boys says in a cocky tone. He steps forward with a smirk, and Keith wrinkles his brow in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” Keith says, and the boy’s face turns from cocky to disbelief to resentment almost faster than Keith can process. 

“Uh, the name’s Lance? Lance García-McClain?” he says in a tone of complete disbelief, and it’s clear that this is somehow supposed to jog Keith’s memory. It doesn’t. When Keith doesn’t say anything Lance adds, “We were in the same ballet group three years ago?” 

“Really?” Keith asks, puzzled. He doesn’t remember this kid at all. Not that he’s surprised by this; he knows that remembering people isn’t exactly his strongest suit. Holding onto names has never been a talent of his. 

“We were, like, rivals” Lance says, and it’s clear he’s getting frustrated. There’s a little colour high in his cheeks as he continues, “You know, Lance and Keith, always neck-and-neck?” Lance stares him down, and he blinks once, considering.

“Oh, wait. I remember you,” Keith says, a sudden flash of that scrawny kid who’d always been trying to out-do him in class, first semester of ninth grade. Keith hadn’t really engaged with him; he’d already had Pidge and Shiro by that point and figured that was enough of a social life. Other people hadn’t particularly interested him. They still didn’t.

Lance doesn’t look particularly mollified by this, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to argue further but he gets cut off by Coran clapping his hands together. 

“Alright class, step-to shall we?” He says in his bright voice. Keith thinks his accent might be from New Zealand, but either way it twists the words in a way that is alarmingly cheerful. “Everyone to the _barre_ , show me what you’re made of!”

The students scatter, each finding a spot on the _barre_ that runs along three walls of the room. The fourth wall is floor to ceiling mirrors. Keith stands at his place with his feet in first position and quickly ties his hair up off the nape of his neck. He’s worn it long since he’d started attending G. Garrison, mainly because it made it easier to cut by himself, but most of the teachers were relaxed about it. He’d only had three that had been adamant about it being tied up flawlessly, no pieces half-falling out or straggling on the back of his neck. The rest had been satisfied with it simply being _up_ , and Coran seemed like he would be the latter. The soft piano music cued up with no warning, and the class launched into a _plie_ exercise. Everyone is warm and stretched from the hour long conditioning class that preceded the hour-long ballet class and the academic day, but it’s the traditional way to start a class. 

After they complete the _barre_ exercises, Coran lets them have a five minute water break. Once they’d finished the _plies_ all the extra layers of clothing had been peeled off. The sweaters and track pants were gone, leaving only the GGBA uniforms behind as the students sweated through exercise after exercise. Keith gulped down his water from his bottle, then returned to the _barre_ to stretch out his hamstrings. He’d strained his left hamstring over the summer, and he still felt some pangs in it. The rest of the class was chattering, adjusting leotards, and sucking down water like they’d been in the desert for forty years. 

“Hey, dweeb,” Pidge said, coming up to where Keith was and leaning back to rest both her elbows on the _barre_ while he stretched. 

“Hey, Pidge.” 

“I always forget how tough beginning of semester is,” She muses. Keith hears someone else come up to them, and turns to look. Lance, and the other guy he never got introduced to. 

“For real! You’d think the start of second semester would be a breeze, but nope!” he whines, butting into their conversation with little ceremony. “First class back is always a major bummer.” 

“It’s like Coran wants us to suffer,” Pidge says, casting a look over at the dance instructor in question. Keith snorts. 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Lance huffed. Keith rolls his eyes at this, but he’s facing away from Lance so it goes unseen. Keith spends a moment wondering whether Lance is always so dramatic. Keith’s only known this kid for all of twenty minutes and everything seems to be a big deal with him. 

“Coran’s cool,” The other boy says, He smiles warmly at Keith and says, “Hey, I’m Hunk.” 

“Hey,” Keith says with a nod, switching from his left leg to his right with a slight wince. “And yeah, Coran’s a chill teacher.” 

“And how would you know that? This is literally the first class,” Lance says pointedly, Keith looks over his shoulder at him and sees that Lance has both his hands planted on his hips. He really has no idea what this guy’s problem is, and he frowns. 

“I know a few seniors and they gave me a heads up?” 

“Well, aren’t we fancy,” Lance retorts, his voice a sarcastic drawl. Keith twists his head a little further and looks at Pidge with a raised eyebrow. She rolls her eyes in response and give a little shrug that manages to convey _I don’t know why he’s being an ass, either_ perfectly. Even Hunk looks perplexed. Keith decides that the best way to deal with Lance is to just… not deal with him at all, and goes back to stretching without giving Lance another glance. Thankfully, Coran calls the class into the center of the room to begin work on the _adagio_ , and Keith momentarily forgets all about Lance. 

Of course, it doesn’t last. Lance corners him in the changeroom as he’s buttoning up the collared uniform shirt. 

“So, Keith, Golden Boy, Mister Hotshot-” Lance starts, and Keith can already tell he doesn’t like where this is going and he shoves all of his gear into the black dance bag he’s had since he was nine. 

“Look, I have to get to math, can this wait.” 

Lance splutters, but nothing intelligible comes out. 

“Great.” Keith swings his bag over his shoulder and exits the room. He thinks he hears Lance shout ‘Hey!’ after him, but he just keeps on walking.

The rest of the week progresses the same way; Keith shows up to class ready to work, and Lance throws a bunch of weirdly passive-aggressive comments his way. And yeah, Keith isn’t exactly helping to de-escalate the situations, but he’s never the one starting it. By Wednesday, Pidge has to keep intervening to mediate before things get too heated. Keith thinks he’s been keeping a pretty good lid on everything, all things considered, but by Friday just the _sight_ of Lance is enough to rile him up. But it’s fine. He’s got a handle on it. 

Or at least he does until they get to the across-the-floor section of the two hour evening class. 

Keith watches as the groups ahead of him dance the routine Coran has set for them. _Waltz step, Waltz step, triple pirouette_ , rinse and repeat. It’s a basic combo, but Coran is always saying that they ‘need to practice the basics! Simple steps are the foundation for the flashy stuff you youngsters love so much!’ so it’s fairly on brand for him. They go across the floor in groups of three. Pidge, Hunk, and Lance are in the same group, and Keith watches idly. Pidge is graceful, except for the one _pirouette_ she hops out of, and Hunk is doing solidly well. Lance keeps consistently steps out of his turns, and eventually just lands singles instead of the required triples. Keith watches closely as Lance completes the final repetition and see the reason why; he brings his arms in too slowly and it throws off his balance as he turns. Keith can see Coran’s careful expression reflected in the mirror. The instructor has been calling out critiques and praise as the groups make their ways across the floor, but he doesn’t say anything this time, just twirls his vibrant mustache. 

The group ahead of Keith begins, and he snaps back, stepping into position to be ready for his turn. When it is, he flows through the simple choreography. Each movement is intentional, each step, each sweep of his arms, each bow of his head. Keith spots as he turns, snapping around twice in his _pirouette_ and landing cleanly. It’s simple, but it’s satisfying. On the last repetition, Keith realizes he has enough momentum for another rotation and pulls himself around a fourth time. The triple transforms into a quadruple. His landing is a bit hard, but he sticks it. 

____“Excellent, Keith!” Coran calls out. Keith smiles slightly, then joins the dancers who have already completed the choreography. Lance is staring intently at the dancers still doing the exercise and Keith sidles up to him._ _ _ _

____“On the _pirouette_ , you need to bring your arms from second position into first faster. You’re too slow and it throws you off your leg, that’s why you keep falling out of the turns,” Keith says without a precursor, his voice pitched just loud enough that Lance will hear him over the music. Lance slowly turns his head to look at him._ _ _ _

____“Excuse me?” Lance says sharply._ _ _ _

____“Just an observation,” Keith says noncommittally. He thinks he shrugs, but he’s not positive._ _ _ _

____“Keep your observations to yourself, then.” The tone Lance uses is as sharp as a knife, and it takes Keith by surprise. There’s a fierceness in Lance’s face, and an embarrassed flush colours his face._ _ _ _

____“What?” Keith asks, a bit stunned._ _ _ _

____“If I want your ‘observations’,” Lance says slowly like he thinks Keith is stupid, his voice mocking, “then I’ll fucking ask, Keith.”_ _ _ _

____Keith flinches instinctively, and then feels himself get furious. Not mad, not angry, but an all encompassing fury that wraps him up tight. It an emotion that Keith does his best to fight off before it gets ahold of him. He knows what breathing exercises to do; he knows all the coping mechanisms, but he’s too surprised from Lance’s outburst to put them in place._ _ _ _

____“I’m just trying to help you, I don’t know what the hell your problem is García-McClain,” Keith is aware that his voice his biting, and a little louder than it should be. A few other students look over at them with raised eyebrows._ _ _ _

____“You,” Lance says as he pokes a finger into Keith’s chest and dimples the fabric of his white shirt, “You are my problem.” Keith’s hands curl into fists by his sides._ _ _ _

____“How the hell-”_ _ _ _

____Coran’s cheerful voice interrupts Keith. “Is there a problem, boys?”_ _ _ _

Lance takes a step away, his finger already retracted. “Nope, nothing at all Coran-my-man,” he says smoothly. Keith glares at Lance irately, but nods once to confirm. He breathes in for four counts, holds for seven, and breathes out for eight. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He unclenches his fingers slowly. 

Class draws to a close shortly after that, and Keith wastes no time getting out the Eris Building and away from Lance.

***

  
Keith remembered his early days like a scrapbook of snapshots. The important events stand out of the haze that the rest of it blurred into. He remembered turning four, remembered candles on a cake and a spiderman action figure. He remembered his mother’s face the day she dropped him off at school for the first time, remembered his mother’s face the day she dropped him off on the doorstep of an office building and never came back.

Keith didn’t remember his father’s face, but that’s fine. He didn’t want to. 

His birthdays after that passed by less memorably other than that each celebrated with a different foster family because Keith was _difficult_ , Keith had _issues_ Keith was _too much to handle_. Some families were better than others. Some were nice places to come home to, places where he tried so hard to be good, to be good enough to stay. Some families were worse than others. Where he kept to himself and kept angry. The patterns hadn’t taken him very long to figure out; and he had been bounced all around the system and back again like a rubber ball. 

It took little time for him to realize the rules, the unspoken protocol that other foster kids lived with. After his third foster home, which hadn’t been such a nice one, he'd realized the most important of the foster kid code. Rule number one, never let them see you cry. Under any circumstances. At best, it wasn’t worth the sympathetic looks and pity, at worst, well. At worst it was better off not said. 

When he was eight and had been in foster care for three years his social worker suggested that his foster family put him in some sort of extracurricular where he could spend his ‘pent up energy’. She’d mean his pent up anger, and everyone in the room knew it, even Keith. And they had; he’d done every sort of intramural sport his elementary school had offered, bouncing around but never landing in that way he seemed destined to. Keith had moved on to a different family, had been nine, when they’d put him in ballet classes. And ballet had stuck, even if that family hadn’t. Even if none of them had, dance was a constant now; the only thing that hadn’t ricocheted back into his face. He excelled at it too. He’d had a teacher when he was eleven who pushed him into auditions, certain that Keith could make something of himself. The teacher had been right and Keith had gone to G. Garrison Ballet Company that autumn, trying not to decipher the looks on his foster family’s faces as he left. 

He looked back sometimes, at that third foster family and the time he’d spent with them. It wasn’t a pleasant time; he wasn’t trying to remember happy memories because there hadn’t been too many there. No; it was to remember the promise he’d made and the rules he’d learned. Never let them see you cry. It was a practice that had held up since then, through auditions and betrayals, and all the hell that life could throw at him. He'd never broken it. Not once.

***

“I don’t understand why he was such a dick about it,” Keith grumbles, voice muffled from where he lays face down on Shiro’s bed. Immediately after dinner, Keith had walked up to the dorms in the Iverson Building, went past his own room and opened the door to Shiro’s instead. With no explanation he’d walked over to the bed and flung himself down on it face-first and hadn’t spoken for five minutes. It had taken even longer for Shiro to coax the story out of him. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Maybe he was embarrassed and took it out on you,” Shiro suggests in the calm, patient voice he always uses with Keith. Keith groans loudly. 

“He makes me _so_ mad Shiro. He’s so fucking annoying. I thought I was gonna hit him, I swear to god.” 

“Oh,” Shiro seems to mull this over, “But you didn’t?” 

Keith sits up enough to quirk an eyebrow at him. “Of course I didn’t; I actually like not being suspended. What do you take me for?” 

“It’s just that if this had happened two years ago, you absolutely would’ve hit Lance.” 

Keith flops back down on the bed. 

“What? It’s true. You’ve come so far, kid,” Shiro says with an edge of pride in his voice. There’s a noise that sounds like shifting weight, the click of Shiro’s prosthetic against the wall, and then he’s is ruffling Keith’s hair. Keith hisses but only gets a laugh in response. 

But he knows Shiro is right; Keith has never been good with people, and he’s especially never been good with people when he’s angry. That was something Keith had learned in his foster kid days. It’s absolutely true that if Lance had come at him out of the blue like that a few years ago it would have ended much differently. Keith sighs. 

“This semester is gonna suck so bad.” 

“You’re so optimistic,” and Keith knows Shiro is rolling his eyes, even if he can’t see it for himself. “Maybe this semester will be the best yet. You never know.” 

“Oh, I think I do,” Keith grumbles into the pillow. He pushes himself up abruptly and stands up. “I should probably go do my homework.” 

“It’s the first week, how do you already have homework?” Shiro raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. Keith makes a face. 

“Sendak is my physics teacher.” 

“Oh god, say no more.” 

“Pidge and I have already planned sixteen different ways to murder him,” Keith says matter of factly. “She’s my seatmate so at least we can suffer together, I guess.” 

Shiro laughs, “That’s the spirit.” Keith chuckles and makes like he’s about to leave. His hand is on the doorknob before he speaks. 

“Hey Shiro? Thanks.” 

“Anytime, Keith. You know that,” Shiro’s voice is warm, and Keith can’t help but smile a little. For the past five years Shiro has been the older brother he never got to have, his first real bond with another person. He always has Keith’s back, but Keith has never quite gotten used to that, to the always awaiting safety net of their friendship. He has no idea what he’s going to do when Shiro graduates in the summer.

***

  
Monday rolls around a little too quickly for Keith’s tastes. Saturday and Sunday are spent in the same scheduled way they always are, but with much more physics homework than Keith would like. For conditioning class Keith keeps to himself and goes through the stretches and movements in his own little world. He has a pair of earbuds in as the instructor makes the rounds, checking alignments and making sure none of the students are slacking off. With loud music pounding in his ears, it’s anything but a sleepy start of the day for Keith, though he can see several students who are struggling to keep themselves awake. When the conditioning session is over the students file out and head towards the ballet studio. Keith’s jaw is already clenched tight from the concept of having to deal with Lance, and he hasn’t even seen him yet today.<

When the class arrives, Coran is talking excitedly to two senior students. A little further in the room is another group of students who Keith thinks may be the junior choreo students. Keith recognizes the seniors immediately, and feels some of the tension drop from his jaw. Shiro and Allura. Though Keith has no idea what two choreo program seniors are doing in a junior ballet class. Keith nods their way as the class loosely gathers in front of Coran. He’s only been their instructor for a week but they’ve already picked up on the fact that he likes to talk for the first five or so minutes of class. 

“Ah! And here are my wonderful students. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Coran says with way too much pep for nine in the morning. It’s also a blatant lie, as most of the class is blinking at Coran with bleary eyes as they slouch. “Class, this is Takashi Shirogane and Allura Amira, seniors in the choreography program, some of you may know who they are. You may be wondering what theses little scamps are doing here, and to that I say, you will get an answer!” 

____Keith gives Shiro a wary look as Coran pauses to take a breath, but Shiro just grins at him._ _ _ _

____“I’m sure you’re all aware of the end of year Showcase we put on at G. Garrison, and you all know how seriously we take it. Scouts from ballet companies across the country, and dare I say, across the world, come to watch. As juniors, there’s a little less pressure than there is on seniors, but today we’ll be pairing you up with your choreographers!” There’s a twinkle in Coran’s eye as he explains all this. The interest and excitement of the class suddenly skyrockets from barely awake to barely contained._ _ _ _

____“Which brings us back to Takashi and Allura! Due to ...unfortunate circumstances, the senior class has a higher number of ballet to choreography students. Fortunately for us, there’s a higher number of ballet juniors than choreo juniors. A few of you lucky dancers will get paired with the lovely Takashi or wonderful Allura. I’ll be pairing you up, but they’ll get first pick, sorry juniors! They’ll be judged in the senior category, but their dancers will be judges as juniors, so no worries there,” Coran laughs as the junior class groans, then whips a binder out of nowhere._ _ _ _

____Efficiently he starts to list off groups. It’s mainly pairs but there are a few groups of three and a few singles. Keith knows this is perhaps because the choreo students put in bids for how many dancers they want to work with, but he’s fuzzy on the specifics. Keith’s ears are perked up, waiting to hear his name. He’s hoping that he’ll get paired with Pidge but she’s in a group with Hunk. After that he crosses his fingers and hopes to be a soloist. Not out of arrogance but simply because he doesn’t want to work with someone he doesn’t know very well. It had happened last year and it had just been stressful._ _ _ _

____“...and the last duo will be Lance García-McClain and Keith Kogane!” Keith feels his face drop, and he shoots a look over to Shiro. Shiro shrugs sympathetically and Keith closes his eyes and counts to ten. Tries not to let out the most pained groan the world has ever heard and only partially succeeds.____

***

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lance says, eyes shooting over to Keith. Coran can’t be serious; this has to be a joke of some sort. Pidge probably put him up to it. Having to work with an arrogant ass like Keith for _months_ That is so not happening. Maybe if he wheedles Coran the right way, he’ll be willing to switch up the pairs. Honestly, anyone would be better than Keith. Even Rax, the rude, crotchety dude who snaps at almost everyone except his sister. Lance had still been riding high on passing all his exams and doing well on them, but he’s just crashed back down to earth, hard. 

“And before any of you ask, all groups are final!” Coran says in a sing-song voice and snaps his binder closed as Lance’s hopes are dashed.“Seniors, take it away!” 

The two seniors, Takashi and Allura, or whatever, have a quiet conversation amongst themselves for a moment. They turn back to the class of juniors and _wow_ if they aren’t the most beautiful people Lance has ever seen. He’s momentarily distracted by the contrast between Allura’s white hair and her dark skin, and wonders how awful the upkeep of white hair is because it is a _look_. 

“I’ll take Keith and Lance,” Takashi says with an easy-going smile. Just like that, Lance’s awe is burst like a bubble. He’d been living in a dream world of beauty but hearing Keith’s name had yanked him back out again.. He glowers, but walks over to Shiro. He’s aware of Allura saying she’d like to work with Pidge and Hunk in soft voice with a lilting accent, but he’s too busy being disgruntled and fueled by resentment to really notice it. He glares at Keith, who looks just as pissed as he does. Lance’s face morphs into something similiar to confusion when Keith and the senior… hug? It’s a short, one-armed affair, but it’s a hug nonetheless. 

“So; I believe thanks are in order,” the senior says in a teasing voice, and Keith makes a face at him. 

“For what, exactly?” 

“Gracing you with my talented choreography skills, obviously,” Takashi grins, and Lance needs a minute to process that because, oh boy. 

“You know what, Shiro? You’re right actually. At least if you’re unreliable I can track you down and beat some sense into you,” Keith says, and he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Shiro?” Lance asks, finally speaking up. The other two look over at him like they forgot that he was there for a second. Lance guesses that this is one of the seniors that Keith mentioned knowing, and, huh. He’d thought that Keith had been bluffing about that, because Lance himself didn’t even know any seniors. 

“Nickname,” Shiro explains, then sticks out a hand for Lance to shake. It’s some sort of cybernetic prosthetic and it throws Lance for a loop for second. “Lance, right?” 

“That’s me. Nice to meet you, Shiro,” Lance rolls the name off of his tongue smoothly as he shakes Shiro’s hand. He sees Keith give him a look out of the corner of his eye, and it’s a little possessive. Weird. 

“Coran didn’t really explain it, but we’re just supposed to just kind of get to know each other for this block. The actual work doesn’t begin until next week,” Shiro explains, with an easy smile on his face. “Or, I guess get to know _you_ , since Keith and I have been friends for years.” 

“You have? Huh,” Lance says lightly. Keith’s eyebrows drop into a glare at that. “So uh, why are we waiting till next week to get the show on the road?”

“If you remember last year, at all, you’d know it’s because we get an afternoon each class to work with the choreographers. The rest of the time is outside of class and we have to organize it ourselves,” Keith says, arms crossed over his chest again. 

“Oh, right,” Lance says. Last year his group had been a hot mess. The choreographer his group had been paired with had been _the worst_. They hadn’t made it past the preliminary judging in May, and hadn’t gotten to perform in the showcase at all. This year was going to be different, even if he had to drag Keith and Shiro, kicking and screaming, across the stage. 

“Yeah. I’ll give you my number and you can text me your schedule, Lance. I already have Keith’s so I’ll figure out a time that works for all three of us,” Shiro says, and then looks at lance expectantly. Lance takes a second before he realizes that Shiro means _right now_. He hands his phone over with an “oh, uh” and Shiro types his number in. 

The last few minutes of class are spent awkwardly making small talk with Shiro while Keith throws in a comment every now and again. Lance is thankful when the bell rings and he can make a quick escape. He meets Pidge outside when they’ve both changed into their uniforms, ready for the academic day to begin. 

“God, can you believe my luck?” Lance groans, shifting the bags on his shoulder as they walk towards the Alfor Building, where all the academic classrooms are. 

“Nope, you get to work with Shiro and Keith? That’s like the best of the best dude,” Pidge says with a shake of her head. “Or almost, since Allura won the choreo first prize at the showcase the last two years. Shiro got second.” 

“Shiro isn’t the problem here,” Lance snorts, “Keith is the problem. Sure, he’s good but, like, is it worth it?” 

“He won the showcase last year, Lance. He’s more than just good. You need to get over what ever stupid grudge it is you have against him,” Pidge says as they round a corner. Lance sighs; he’d forgotten that Keith had won the sophomore showcase, honestly. Pidge and Hunk had performed but they hadn’t placed, and that’s all he really remembered about it. He’d still been pretty sour over the whole fiasco that had happened with his group. 

“Whatever,” Lance whines, “God, I can’t believe I have calc first. Why am I even taking this class? Dancers don’t even need to be able to count past eight.” Pidge makes a sympathetic noise. 

“I have to get to physics before Sendak rips me a new one. Have fun suffering.” 

“Thanks sooo much, Pidge.” Pidge gives him a mock salute and then paces off down the hall where the physics labs are. Lance grumbles to himself the entire way to his calc class. He doesn’t have high hopes for this day.

***

Lance is right about the day, he’s also right about the whole week. Coran’s classes with Keith are annoying, the two of them constantly throwing passive-aggressive comments at each other, his English Lit. teacher is a hag, and he answers a calculus question on the board wrong. By Saturday he’s just praying for the week to end. He’s so happy he doesn’t have to drag his ass to the Alfor building that he doesn’t even mind the fact that he has to go to conditioning and then a three hour class. Well. He doesn’t mind _much_. 

__He runs into Pidge in the hallway as he’s leaving his dorm. They live in the same building but on different floors, so it’s not all that uncommon for them. The two of them trudge towards the Eris building, not really talking because who has the energy for that on a Saturday at ten am, when Lance’s phone dings with an email._ _

__He pulls it out of his pocket to look at it, swiping past the password and skimming the email. Once he gets past the first paragraph, however, he stops and throws out a hand in Pidge’s general direction._ _

__“Pidge. Guess what?” He says, suddenly much more aware and awake. Pidge squints at him through her glasses._ _

__“Forever 21 is having a really, really good sale?”_ _

__“No, but I can understand why you would think so.”_ _

__“What, Lance?”_ _

__“I’ve been accepted into the G. Garrison Ballet Company Advanced Placement Summer Program,” He says calmly. When he says it out loud like that it seems a little less exciting, a little less cool._ _

__“Oh sick! Congratulations, man,” Pidge says, a smile gracing her face for a moment before she takes in Lance’s expression. “Hey; what’s wrong?”_ _

__“Nothing, nothing. It’s just kinda lame, isn’t it? Like I go to school here, that’s not as cool as what some kids are doing,” Lance says, aiming for a breezy tone. He think about how last week he heard that a certain mulleted Korean dancer has offers from not one, not two, but three top dance companies to come to their summer programs. Free of charge, if the rumors are to be believed. And really, what is GGBA compared to Joffrey, or the Chicago Ballet? Rumours also say that Keith passed up a chance to be bumped up to the senior program this year, but Lance doesn’t want to think too much about that._ _

__Logically, Lance knows that they’re on the same playing field, that G. Garrison is just as hard and just as picky as those other schools and companies, but it doesn’t feel like as much of an accomplishment as it would if he were accepted to somewhere else._ _

__“It is cool though! The Advanced Summer Program is really hard to get into; they only take like forty kids, right? I thought you were really excited about this?” Pidge says, nose wrinkled up in confusion._ _

__“Yeah, I guess so,” Lance says, then closes the email and tucks his phone away back into his pocket._ _

__“It’s such a good opportunity though,” Pidge says, a bit more neutrally._ _

__“I know it’s just…,” Lance blows out a big sigh. “It feels like it’s not as cool because this is my school y’know? Like the Advanced Program isn’t shit compared to other places?”_ _

__“Of course not. You know that. Just ask Hunk,” Pidge replies as they arrive at the classroom. “Hey, Hunk!”_ _

__“Yeah?” Hunk says from where he’s sitting and putting on his ballet shoes._ _

__“Is the G. Garrison Advanced Summer Placement Summer Program lame?” Pidge asks point-blank. Lance winces as Hunk raises his eyebrows._ _

__“Uh, no? Why the hell?”_ _

“Lance here thinks it is,” Pidge says with as she flops down on the floor to put her own shoes on. Hunk fixes Lance with a look but the next words aren’t spoken by him.

“The Advanced Program is great; it’s a really great opportunity,” Lance closes his eyes at the voice, because _of course_ it’s fucking Keith. “I went last year and it’s probably one of the best summer programs around.” 

__“See!” Pidge says triumphantly, “And Keith knows his shit, dude.” Lance grumbles, but it’s too early to pick a fight so he lets it go. It’s so not any of Keith’s business though. Lance wonders if Keith will ever keep his opinions to himself._ _

__“Honestly, it’s a good experience,” Keith adds with a shrug before walking off. Lance scoffs. Keith is gonna drive him up a wall before the end of the year._ _

__  



	2. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thanks to bi_spying for the beta reading and for being the best cheerleader a writer could ask for.  
> This fic is going to update monthly! Probably in the span of the 27th-31st of the month, or that's what I'm aiming for. 
> 
> Now, without further ado;
> 
> Strap in, buckaroos. This is a wild 'un.

“Okay, just… Let's take five and then go over it again,” Shiro says as he drags a hand down his face. They’ve been in practice for three-quarters of an hour, and things have only been getting worse, if Keith is being honest. 

“You keep landing on the sixth beat instead of the fifth. It’s throwing everything off,” Lance hisses at Keith, a scowl forming on his face. Keith scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn’t have to land on six if you could manage to get to your spot on time.” Lance splutters for a few seconds at this, and Keith smiles smugly.

“At least I know _how_ to spot, Golden Boy” Lance retorts, stepping dangerously close.

“Good one, García-McClain,” Keith narrows his eyes and takes a step forward to match, his voice the epitome of condescension and sarcasm,“ Go back to the second grade if that’s really the best you can come up with.”

“Oh, you are on, Mullet Man!”

“Let’s go, Probation Boy,” Keith counters. Hurt flashes over Lance’s face for half a second, but it passes so quickly Keith isn’t even sure it was ever really there. Lance opens his mouth but before he can get any words out, Shiro cuts in.

“Hey! Enough you two!” Keith frowns. He knows this voice. This is Shiro’s Lecture Voice. 

“You need to learn to get along with one another. This is ridiculous. You’re both practically adults, act like it.” Shiro has both hands planted on his hips, just above the waistband of his black sweatpants, and a stern look on his face.

“Sorry,” Keith mutters and pushes a piece of hair that’s fallen out of his ponytail behind his ear. Lance has the grace to look chastised, but he stays silent, scuffing his feet against the floor. 

They’re already a week into February and things haven’t really improved. Every time they have a practice there’s an itch under Keith’s skin; Lance is too much, too prickly, too difficult. Shiro is doing his best to keeps civil, but even Keith can tell he’s fighting a losing battle. He blows out a sigh then leans back against the _barre_ , humming lightly under his breath as he mocks out the steps with his hands again. Lance is right; he’s a beat behind on his _540 battement en rond_ , a huge leap where he rotates horizontally. The full move rotates 540 degrees, hence the name. Keith’s a bit surprised that Shiro didn’t pick up on it; he’s even more surprised he didn’t notice it himself. It’s a difficult move, and Keith had been surprised when Shiro had said it was going to be incorporated into the dance.

“Shall we try again?” Shiro asks. Rather than answer, Keith and Lance both go to their spots for the beginning of the combination, Lance centerstage and Keith tucked away into the corner. There’s no music but that’s common enough in choreographing a ballet; the music is usually the last step. Shiro has openly said that he’s still playing around with the choreography, though he still hasn’t told the two dancers the theme of the piece. Keith finds that more than little odd, but he still stands in his pose of fifth position with hands tucked to his left hip, and waits to begin.

“Five, Six, Seven, Eight,” Shiro counts off, keeping time with his foot as Lance beings his sequence. It’s full of angry, energetic steps, and Lance does it well, throwing himself through turns and leaps with a fury. Keith watches, counting in his head as Lance dances through his solo of three counts of eight beats. 

Keith counts off the first beat of the next bar, then shifts his weight onto his back leg, extending his right leg into a _tondu_ before moving forward into a _chasse_. After that he’s a blur of movement, a slight _plie_ while he whips his arms around and throws himself into the air, using the momentum from his arms and his right leg to twist cleanly through the air. The moment from the jump pulls him into a turn once he lands. He slides into a kneel, arms extended, right into the spot Lance has just vacated with a few smooth _glissades_. Keith drags his hands down his face, the ballet mime for sadness, while Lance flits around him mockingly. It’s the only hint of any sort for theme that Shiro’s working on. Keith extends his left arm out, pushing himself up to standing and briefly chasing Lance in a wide oval. The choreography ends there, and the two dancers stop and look to Shiro for critiques. 

“Better,” is all he says, with a short nod.

“Just better?” Lance asks. “That’s it?”

“Your _tour en l’airs_ are still sloppy, Lance. And Keith, your left leg was not fully extended, again. But,” Shiro pauses for a moment, “the timing was perfect. And speaking of, I believe that we’ve run out of time for today. Good work.” This last is said with a warm smile as Shiro shifts from choreography mode back to his usual demeanor. “I think we’re making real progress, guys.”

Keith doesn’t really agree; it feels like they’ve barely gotten anything done. He knows it’s only February and that the Preliminaries aren’t until May, but he also knows how quickly time gets eaten up. Just thinking about it causes a ball of anxiety to form in his stomach. He does his best to push it down, and nods at Shiro.

It had only taken a week to organize the schedule for working on the Showcase piece. They had an entire afternoon class period dedicated to it every Monday under the careful, watching eyes of Coran and Thace, the choreo instructor. There were two studio spaces for it, but even so things were more than a tad cramped, and there is the worry of being copied by another group. There are strict rules against it, but it seems like it happens at least once every year, and everyone has heard more than enough horror stories about it. On these days they mostly go over timings and Shiro tries out random snippets of choreo, rather than running through the larger choreographed sections of the piece. Full run throughs of the piece are saved for private practices.

Private practices, Shiro had decided, worked best for everyone on Wednesday evening and Sunday afternoon. It’s been a few weeks and Keith is still a little grumpy about that. It completely throws off his Sunday schedule; he’s had to rework it entirely. He works out in the morning still, but afterwards he does homework until the practice session with Shiro and Lance. Keith’s still managing to squeeze in some studio time, because he’s too stubborn to change _that_ much, but he’s usually too tired to do a whole lot with it. 

Today is no exception. Another group of dancers squeezes into the practice space as Keith is leaving with his bag over his shoulder, and he heads up to the top floor. He knows from years of practicing on Sunday that it’s the most likely place to have an empty practice room. The spaces are available to book, but during the Spring semester the rooms are prioritized to groups practicing for the Showcase, and Keith can’t be bothered to book ahead the rest of the school year when there isn’t such a rush on space.

He makes his way down the wide hall, music drifting out through and under the doors. It takes a bit of time and knocking to see if they’re occupied before he finds one that’s empty. Satisfied, Keith slips into the room. He sets up quickly, plugging his phone into the AUX cord and doing some quick stretches. His muscles are still warm from the Showcase practice, but he doesn’t want to pull anything. Again. His hamstring strain from the previous summer is still haunting him. Probably, as Shiro would say, because he isn’t properly following his physiotherapist's instructions fully.

Keith cues up his playlist, and scrolls down to the weird, experimental music, selecting a track at random and hitting play. He stands still, letting the music wash over him for a few bars, then begins to go over parts of the day’s choreography. He’s watching himself in the mirror as he dips into _tombes_ and flits around the room. There’s a frown on his face as he stares at his reflection and repeats a section over when he misses the timing, when he he hears a snort from the doorway.

“What? Didn’t get enough practice already today, Golden Boy?”

It’s Lance. Of course. He’s leaning on the doorframe, hand on his hip and his dance bag over his shoulder, a bi flag patch showing predominantly on the front pocket. He’s wearing the same clothes he was earlier; a pair of knee-length spandex shorts and a light blue cropped shirt. Keith reacts the same way he had earlier when Lance had strolled into practice; he rolls his eyes.

“What do you want, García-McClain?” he asks, his frown deepening as he turns away from the mirror and faces Lance.

“Okay, so,” Lance laughs a little, “wouldn’t you know it, but all the other practice rooms are full and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind sharing the room? Please? Pretty, pretty please?”

Keith narrows his eyes. He hates sharing the studio spaces; it makes him more aware and pulls him out of the space in his head he goes to. His mouth is half-open and poised to refuse, when he remembers Shiro taking him aside and saying, ‘Keith, please _try_ ’, and he wavers. Closes his mouth and grits his teeth, only to open it again a second later and say, “Alright.” 

There’s a surprised look on Lance’s face, like he expected Keith to say no. Keith can relate. But Lance steps into the room and closes the door behind him, setting his bag down just inside the door. Keith watches him in the mirror for a second, then goes back to practicing. The music has switched over to something with a lot of pan flute in it. Keith steps back, shifting his weight and then flows forward into another _540 battement en rond_ , watching himself the best he can and focusing on his extensions. He lands it smoothly, slides on into a kneel as his eyes slide over to Lance.

“No shade dude,” Lance says, his voice light as he holds up his hands to show he means no harm, “but your turnout on that _sucked_.”

Keith snorts. “I know.”

“The extension was good, though” Lance says with a shrug, leaning all his weight on one leg and jutting out a hip.

Keith pauses for a second, narrows his eyes slightly. “Uh, thanks?” 

“No problem,” Lance flashes him a smile then walks over to his own space, the intent to begin his own practicing clear. Keith gives him a slightly confused look, because since when is Lance _nice_ to him? Maybe it’s because Keith agreed to share the room, or maybe Shiro and Lance had their own conversation about attempting to get along. Keith shoves the thought to the back of his mind, and goes back to practicing. He attempts another _540 battement en rond_ before switching to a few snippets Shiro had shown them earlier. 

The music changes into something soft and twinkling. It reminds Keith of a child’s toy piano, and he starts to freestyle, leaving Shiro’s choreography behind and moving how the music guides him. It’s light and fun, and Keith briefly loses himself in it. The song is short, less than a minute, and when it comes to a close Keith crashes back into reality. He meets Lance’s eyes in the mirror and finds a quizzical look waiting for him, brows furrowed. There’s another aspect to the expression that Keith can’t quite place.

“What?” He asks bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest as he turns away from the mirror and faces Lance.

“Nothing, man, nothing at all,” Lance says, his expression quickly clearing into a smile that’s not quite a smirk but not quite anything else, either. Keith looks at him for a moment longer, forehead creasing, before he turns back. His focus has derailed entirely, so he goes over a few basic step combinations. His eyes wander over to Lance, and he watches idly in the mirror as Lance sets himself up for a _pirouette_ , then whips himself into it, spinning around once, twice, three times, before he lands it solidly. He goes again, and there’s a slight wobble in the third turn, but other than that it’s decent.

“Told you,” Keith finds himself saying before he realizes he’s speaking out loud, “you just needed to pull your arm in earlier.” Lance throws him a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, Golden Boy,” he says, but this time it’s said playfully, not like an insult, and Keith feels the corner of his mouth quirk up a little at it, “You were right.”

“You’re welcome,” Keith says, and he smiles back. They’ve both stopped dancing, and the music plays on lightly in the background.

“I’m sorry about that,” Lance says, and he glances away awkwardly before looking back at Keith in the mirror, “Snapping at you that day, I mean. I was having a rough day and I was a bit embarrassed that I kept messing up my turns.”

Keith turns away from the mirror again to face Lance and not just his reflection. He hadn’t expected Lance to apologize for it, ever, he certainly wasn’t expecting him to mention it in that moment. He can’t seem to get a handle on Lance; one second he’s a dick, and the next he seems… sort of decent. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith says after a beat, tacking on a shrug, “Bad days happen.” He doesn’t tell Lance how close he’d come to being served a knuckle-sandwich that day, doesn’t mention how far under his skin he’s gotten. He realizes his therapist would probably be proud of him for this. He also realizes this is what his therapist would call ‘a fresh start’, and he takes it.

“We got off on the wrong foot, I think,” Keith pauses, clears his throat, avoids looking at Lance. “I think maybe we need a do-over.”

“A do-over? Huh. Okay,” Lance says, mulling it over then nodding once with enthusiasm. He slaps a huge grin on his face and saunters over, hand held out to shake Keith’s. “Hey there, the name’s Lance.” 

Keith’s face falls into an expression of feigned-confusion, “Uh, who?”

Lance looks at him for a long moment, unsure, and then Keith breaks into laughter. Lance follows suit and punches his shoulder lightly.

“Oh my god, Kogane, you _ass_! That’s not how do-overs work!”

***

Keith leaves shortly after they make up; he’s tired, needs to shower and do homework, and he needs to process… whatever it was _that_ had been. When Lance isn’t outright attacking him, it certainly makes it much easier to get along. Not that Keith is trying to kid himself; he knows he’s just as guilty of starting things as Lance is. There’s been a switch in the dynamic though, a suddenly lighter atmosphere. Keith isn’t entirely sure what to make of it. It’s...nice, whatever it is.

He supposes Shiro will be happy about it.

And he definitely is; after their practice on Wednesday, just before dinner, he takes Keith aside. He’s also decidedly confused about the sudden switch.

“So, I see that you and Lance are getting along better now. Not that I’m complaining, but want to fill me in?”

“He apologized for being an asshole,” Keith says nonchalantly, and takes a drink from his water bottle. Shiro raises an eyebrow. “I know; I’m just as surprised as you.”

“When was this?”

“Sunday, after practice. We ended up sharing a studio space and he apologized,” Keith explains, but Shiro only looks more confused, cocking his head to the side and jamming his hands into the pockets of his unzipped hoodie. 

“You hate sharing studio space though.”

“Yeah well,” Keith pokes a finger into Shiro’s shoulder,” _somebody_ told me to try to be nicer.”

“Aw, I’m glad I’m finally getting through to you. It’s only taken what, four years?” Shiro laughs and ruffles Keith’s hair. There’s an almost sly look on his face. “Maybe now you’ll start listening to me when I tell you to relax with all the training too, hmm?”

“Yeah, good luck with that, Shiro,” Keith snorts, leaning out of reach but not before yanking on Shiro’s sweater’s drawstring, pulling it out of alignment.

“Seriously, Keith. Sunday is supposed to be the day of rest.” Shiro’s tone is light and joking, but there’s concern in his eyes as he adjusts his hoodie.

“Okay, Mr. Choreographer. I’ll rest when you let me,” Keith rolls his eyes but with a touch of a smile on his mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Shiro’s concern; he does. But he’s stubborn, and he knows his own limits. Albeit that his own limits had been very apparent last Sunday when he’d fallen asleep mid-thesis statement, but Shiro doesn’t need to know about that. Maybe he’ll scale it back a bit. Maybe.

***

The rest of the week passes by pretty easily, nothing important to note. Classes with Pidge are a lot more fun when he isn’t constantly getting into fights with Lance, he’s discovered. He’s even made what he would tentatively call an acquaintance with Hunk. Lance is still floating in a weird no-man’s land; Keith isn’t sure what to call their relationship. Friendly, anyway, which is a far cry from the week before. They joke a lot during Coran’s class. It’s light and fun, and Keith finds he has a smile on his face in class now, more often than not. Pidge hasn’t said anything about it yet, but Keith has a feeling it’s coming.

When Sunday rolls around, Keith does scale back. He shortens his workout by half an hour, and spends the extra time going over material for an upcoming chemistry test. He’s halfway through his notes when he receives a text from Shiro. It’s not atypical; he usually shoots off a text before a practice to remind everyone when and where it’s occurring. Not that Keith needs it; there’s no way he’d ever forget about a practice. 

What is unusual, however, is that it isn’t a text reminding Keith that _‘Hey, practice is at 3, in studio A8 :)’_ , but instead says how sorry Shiro is, but he won’t be able to make it today. Something about emergency studying. A second message comes in while Keith is still reading the first one, saying that the room is still booked if he and Lance want to run things over a few times on their own.

Keith frowns at his phone for a long moment, because it isn’t like Shiro to just flake out like this. With a sigh, he goes back to his studying, and once he’s finished the section he picks up his bag and makes the trek to the Eris Building, where all the studios are. It’s cold out, for California, and Keith hurries across campus. He’s not surprised in the least that he’s there before Lance, and he goes about warming up by himself. The AUX cord is connected to Keith’s phone, pop punk playing instead of his go-to dance playlist; he’s never liked listening to classical music while warming up. He’s not sure why, but it gives him more energy when he puts on something else.

Keith pulls his sweatshirt off over his head while a guitar strums and a man sings about fruit. He runs through a quick _plie_ exercise, still wearing the rest of the gear he normally does pre-practice; a pair of grey sweats pulled on over his dance-tights, a pair of thick black leg-warmers scrunched around his ankles, and a white t-shirt. Keith has learned the hard way about the consequences of not warming up properly, and he isn’t eager to repeat it, so he usually layers up until the real work began and his muscles are properly warm.

Lance has picked at him for the leg-warmers a few times, asking if Keith was attempting to be an 80’s background dancer, but they were functional and Keith has said so, admittedly with a bit more attitude than that. There’s a small frown on his face as he remembers the moment, but he clears his expression when the door swings open and Lance steps in the room. Only for said frown to reappear in full force when he sees the look on Lance’s face. He’s clearly upset; his eyes are rimmed red and his jaw is set in a way that can only be read as angry.

“Hey; are you okay, Lance?” Keith asks from partway across the room as Lance slams his bag down with a loud _thud_. Keith flinches at the sound.

“What’s it to you, Kogane?” Lance bites back, and Keith’s frown deepens. He’d thought they’d made it past this, that they were being friendly, if not friends. An olive branch had been extended, Keith had thought.

“I just.. You seem kind of upset?”

“Your skills of observation are truly astounding, Golden Boy,” Lance says, voice acerbic as he puts on his dance shoes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“You don’t want to warm up first?” 

“Nope.” Lance says shortly, walking over to where Keith’s phone is and unplugging it from the AUX, cutting off the song mid-word. He’s walking heavy on his heels; not quite stomping but in a way that conveys precisely how pissed he is.

Keith tries once more, taking a few steps in Lance’s direction despite the heavy tension in the room as silence takes over while Lance fumbles to plug his phone in. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why would I want to talk about it with you? I barely even know you,” there’s almost no bite to Lance’s words, like he’s trying to restrain himself. Keith takes a half-step back, stung and confused. 

“Okay,” he says, holding up his hands in a similar way Lance himself had just the week before, a gesture of surrender this time, “just trying to help. No need to bite my head off, man.”

Keith instantly knows that, somehow, this was the wrong thing to say because Lance whips his head around immediately, a scowl already on his face. Whatever restraint he’s been trying to have over himself has clearly been thrown straight out the window.

“Fine,” he spits out, suddenly furious. Keith wrinkles his brow, not understanding how everything has flipped around so fast, and regretting even saying anything in the first place. “You wanna talk? Sure. Let’s talk about how nice it must be to have a full scholarship and not have a care in the world. Must be real nice to have everyone else's tuition pay for yours, huh, Golden Boy? Bet it’s real easy on your parents. They can just kick back and relax." 

Lance’s face is set hard, stepping close leaning down into Keith's space as he speaks. And it's nothing Keith hasn't heard before, nothing he hasn't had handed to him time and time again during his time at GGBA. How nice it must be to not have to pay, to only have the constant stress of performing well enough to keep a spot as the price, but this time it stings with a viciousness he's never felt before. This time it's a knife in the back and a _twist_ , severing something vital. Because he'd trusted Lance, seen the potential in him for a friend despite their petty arguments, and Lance just carves into him, gouging out things he wants to leave behind. It’s such a sudden switch that his head almost spins from the confusion and hurt of it all, before he gets angry. Really and truly angry, because that’s not the only reason why it hurts so much.

Because Keith still remembers how it felt to stand in an audition room, a fabric number pinned to his chest as he sweats through a uniform two sizes too big because secondhand was the best he could afford. He still remembers the burn in his throat when they had told him, 11 years old and _shaking_ , that he had a full ride. Remembers how he felt the world lift from his sparrow-boned shoulders in that moment and _how dare_ Lance say this to him. How dare he act like Keith hasn't fought tooth and fucking nail to be where he is. Like his blood, sweat, and tears haven't been poured into this, forty days and forty nights worth. But Lance is acting like he’s undeserving. Like none of that matters.

Keith is shaking, trembling with the effort of keeping himself contained. His fists are clenched so hard around the urge to lash out, to strike, that the knuckles have gone bone white. His eyes are raw and scratchy but his voice is dead calm, a flatline dripping venom when he opens his mouth and speaks. There’s a drastic change in Lance’s expression. It looks something like regret, and he starts to say something, but Keith gets there first. 

"Maybe if my parents hadn't abandoned me on the fucking street like I was a piece of trash when I was five, I wouldn't need a full scholarship, García-McClain. Food for fucking thought." 

He watches as Lance's expression drops, sees his face blanche as the blood leaves it, but there is no triumph in it. There is no winning; just fingernails cutting into palms and filthy, rotten memories. Keith clenches his jaw, his whole body a wire pulled taut with tension, and stalks out of the studio, stooping by the door to swing his bag on to his shoulder but not stopping. Behind him, Lance doesn’t even make a sound.

***

Keith knows himself. He knows himself better than he'd like to, thanks to his therapist, and he knows he needs to go kick the ever-loving shit out of something before he explodes. He finds himself at the gym, not really sure how he's gotten there but not really caring either. It's a matter of minutes before he's where he needs to be; fists connecting hard with a punching bag and punctuating each thought rolling through his head. His hands aren’t wrapped like they should be, but he doesn’t care, just keeps slamming them into the heavy bag as his brain flings accusations around.

Who does Lance García-McClain think he is? _thud_ Keith doesn’t need this in his life, this constant drama. _thud_ This kid who can’t decide whether or not he’s gonna be an asshole _thud_ Keith's been doing better; he’s been doing his best and in waltzes this Cuban kid with an attitude problem, like he knows anything about Keith. _thud_ Or anything at all. _thud_

He doesn't know how long he's there for, beating his hands into jelly. He doesn't know how long it takes for Shiro to find him, to wrap an arm around his shoulders and say 'hey' in a voice softer than Keith has ever dreamed of hearing. 

He does know it's only seconds before he's relaxing into the touch, turning into mush. He knows when he breaks his longest running promise to himself and feels the hot tears slide down his face, feels himself breathing brokenly. _Rule number one Kogane; never let them see you cry_.

***

Day rolls into night and suddenly it’s Monday. Lance has never felt like such garbage during a morning class before. He's never felt like such garbage as a person, either. He moves through the conditioning routine like he's half-alive, and tries to catch Keith's eyes in the mirror.

It's no use. 

Keith’s face, impassive, stays positioned in the opposite direction for the whole period. But that doesn't stop Lance from noticing the bruises blooming on Keith's knuckles, swirls of blue and purple that look like they twinge with every movement. The minute Lance sees them he suddenly feels heavy, like he's been filled with cement, and _god_ , he never meant for this. Never meant for it to turn into something ugly, a conversation fueled by his own anxieties and issues and turned into a weapon. The minute the words were out of his mouth he’d regretted them. Keith deserves better than his venomous tongue. The shame of it all weighs on him. The guilt sits heavy in his chest, an anchor attached to his heart, weighing him down.

He does his best to try to corner Keith at the end of class, to apologize, but Keith slips out before he can catch him, sand through an hourglass. Lance trudges to class, a concerned Pidge at his elbow, nattering away. He feels physically ill, and he has since practice had gone so terribly wrong.

“You okay?” Pidge asks, a wrinkle of concern in between her eyebrows.

“Yeah, just nauseous.” Lance feels another wave of guilt hit him the minute the words are out of his mouth. He _hates_ lying, and he hates lying to his friends, especially. But Pidge is Keith’s friend too, and the inevitable lecture just isn’t what he needs to hear right now. He isn’t sure what he needs; probably to go take a long walk off a short pier. He suddenly feels very tired.

***

"Alright," Shiro says, face serious as he comes up to where Lance is sitting in the library and heaving himself into a seat, "what did you do?"

"What do you mean?" Lance says, looking up from the calculus assignment he's been trying to work on for twenty minutes. His conscience is ripping him to shreds and making doing any sort of calculations incredibly difficult. The double-whammy of guilt and stress combined are eating him alive.

"Keith texted me to tell me he won't be in evening class . And Keith never misses class. He had a fever of 102 degrees once and he still tried to go. So," Shiro lays his hands flat on the table and looks Lance directly in the eye ,"What did you do."

It’s not until that moment that he realizes exactly how dead he is. It dawns on Lance that Shiro is going to murder him and his body will never be found. Not that he would even blame him for it really; he’d do the same thing if someone was so awful to one of his friends. Another wave of guilt hits Lance.

“We, uh,” Lance says, and gives up any pretense of finishing the assignment. Not that it matters because Shiro is going to _kill him_ before class starts anyway, “We had a fight?”

“A fight.”

“Yeah,” and Lance squirms in his seat a little, because this is the worst thing he’s ever had to admit to in his life, he’s sure, and the weight of Shiro’s gaze is a little too heavy to bear.

“A fight about what, Lance,” there’s a flame behind Shiro’s eyes and Lance gets the feeling that he knows more about this than he’s letting on. He’s giving Lance just enough rope to hang himself, Lance recognizes the signs from every time he’s been in trouble with his mother. He narrows his eyes slightly.

“You know something about this,” Lance says, and starts slowly putting his things into his backpack, foolishly hoping that he’ll be able to run out of here when the conversation is done and Shiro won’t be able to catch him.

“I saw him yesterday evening after you guys were supposed to meet to practice the showcase choreography and he was... upset.” There’s a slight pause, a hesitation that seems protective.

“Upset?” Lance says, pushing back a little into that hesitation. The word seems weak in comparison to the image of Keith with his anger-flushed face and clenched fists that’s burned into Lance’s brain. He remembers thinking for half a second that, somehow, it had been worse than if he’d just cried. All that pent up emotion being held back, but just barely.

Shiro sighs, closes his eyes, “He was crying, Lance.”

“Shit,” Lance says without meaning to, as his stomach suddenly drops down to his knees. He realizes he’d been wrong, that the idea of Keith crying was, in fact, worse than whatever it was he’d seen.

“Exactly.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance swears softly under his breath, eyes glued to the tabletop. His stomach doesn’t appear to be coming back to where it should be anytime soon. The past twenty-four hours has really been a terrible time for his stomach, he thinks. 

“I was a real dick,” Lance says without looking up.

“You want to extrapolate on that?” Shiro asks. There’s a rhythmic tapping that Lance thinks could possibly be Shiro’s fingernails on the table, but he’s still making direct eye contact with the table, so he can’t say for sure. 

“I don’t want you to hate me forever or murder me so, not really,” Lance laughs awkwardly. “I feel like shit about it though.”

“Does Keith know that?”

“Uh, no.”

“Lance-” Shiro starts, and it’s clear a lecture is imminent. He’s speaking in that slow, patient way he does when he’s about to really dig in.

“Only because he won’t talk to me!” Lance scrambles to say before Shiro can get into the swing of things. Having Shiro lecture him is even worse than when his mother does; the disappointment feels heavier. Probably because Lance wants to impress Shiro, and his mom has to love him despite the times he acts like a moron. “Not that I can blame him.” Lance adds this last in a voice so low that he’s not even sure that Shiro has heard him. There’s a frown on his face, so maybe he has.

 

“You shouldn’t leave it for too long,” is all Shiro says, his voice cautionary as he stands up by pushing off from the table with his palms. Lance nods, barely lifting his head. He waits until Shiro has left the library before he makes his own getaway. 

Except it’s not really a getaway because he almost immediately runs into Pidge, who looks like she’s gearing up for something ranging from moderately to severely violent.

“You better have a good reason for avoiding me the past two days,” she says in lieu of a hello, poking a finger hard into Lance’s shoulder right next to the strap of his blue backpack .

“It’s nothing,” Lance says with a shake of his head. He feels miserable, and he must look it, too, because Pidge blows out a scoff. Her face softens significantly though, and she tucks her finger back into her fist and lightly knocks Lance in the shoulder with it.

“Are you okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Lance says. Pidge raises an eyebrow at that, a skill Lance is insanely jealous of, and he repeats, “Really. I’m fine Pidge.”

“Then why do you look like someone just stole your birthday?”

Lance sighs. He doesn’t want to tell Pidge; he really, really doesn’t. Because if he tells her about the fight, she’ll ask what prompted it, and that’s what he’s really afraid of. If you give a mouse a cookie, and all that. 

“I’m gonna pester you about it until you tell me, you know that right?” 

“Yeah,” Lance tries his best to not heave yet another huge sigh. Pidge means for the best, he knows that. He knows that she’s concerned and she cares a lot for him. He’s not even afraid that she’ll react badly to the fight. He just can’t deal with her knowing the rest of the story just yet. He’s still processing it himself; the compounded anguish of the two events. “Yeah Pid Pid, I know.”

Practice that day is a mess. Keith isn’t there and Lance can’t focus and all of Shiro’s attention is on him. It’s a lot. They don’t get anything done, really. Not that either of them are surprised. Shiro is really patient about the whole thing which somehow makes it worse. He goes to bed that night, boneless and exhausted, but he doesn’t fall asleep for hours.

***

G. Garrison Ballet Academy is a ridiculously well known school for many things. For being one of the most prestigious dance schools, not just in the state of California, but in all of North America. For its state-of-the-art campus, for pumping out brilliant professional dancers, and for a million other reasons. However, what it was not well known for was the quality of its cafeteria food.

“Seriously; with what they charge at this school you think they would at least use spice in the food?” Hunk moans sadly as he and Lance walk back from the counter, trays in hand. There’s the constant cheerful chatter of teenagers surrounding them as they walk. Lance isn’t sure what’s on his tray, but it looks incredibly bland. “Haven’t they ever heard of pepper here? Maybe a little chili pepper?”

“I get you, buddy,” Lance nods and looks out into the sea of students in the cafeteria. There’s a few empty tables dotting the crowd. “Where are we sitting?”

“Pidge and I need to talk about our math project, so wherever she is, I guess,” Hunk says easily, his eyes scanning the room. After a few seconds his face lights up.

“Over there, by the garbage can,” Hunk says with a nod then starts walking.

“How fitting,” Lance says, but his heart isn’t entirely in it. It isn’t until they’re only a few tables away that Lance realizes that Pidge isn’t sitting by herself; she’s chatting away to someone. A few more steps forward and Lance sees who it is as they turn their face to laugh at something Pidge has just said.

Keith.

Lance feels his throat contract and he stops in his tracks. Hunk notices and turns around with a concerned look on his face.

“You okay dude?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah I'm fine,” Lance says, his voice a little shaky. Hunk gives him a look that says he, on no uncertain terms, believes him. He lets it go without comment though. 

“Hey, Pidge! Hi Keith!” Hunk says, plunking his tray down next to Pidge, leaving Lance no choice but to sit down next to Keith. Lance can feel his face heat up as he takes his seat, saying a quiet ‘Hey,” but Keith doesn’t even turn to look at him, just leans a little closer to Pidge and asks about the project she and Hunk are working on. The tension between them is almost tangible. Lance hunches his shoulders stabs at his lunch with his fork.

“Hey, Lance. Have you guys covered this yet? We need a third opinion,” Pidge asks out of the blue. Lance looks at her and blinks for a few seconds.

“Hmm? Oh, no. We’re starting it today I think. Our class is a bit behind” he responds in an almost monotone, still pushing the food around his plate.

“Damn,” Pidge says, and wrinkles up her face before turning back to Hunk. Lance knows they don’t mean to do it, but it’s awkward and he feels so isolated and uncomfortable. Pidge and Hunk are going back and forth over their project and Keith is just straight up ignoring him.

Okay, so, maybe Keith means to do it.

Lance sighs, looks at the time, sighs again. Time is ticking by so slowly it almost feels like it’s going backwards. The urge to just get up and leave is so strong that he almost does, but he can see Hunk casting him concerned looks when he thinks Lance isn’t looking. So he sticks it out. It’s the longest half hour of his entire life; he’s pretty sure he’s visibly nervous-sweating. By the end of it, even Pidge looks a little concerned, as engrossed in her math equations as she is. Lance ignores the looks though. It’s too awkward to deal with right now.

***

Lance isn’t entirely sure how it ends up happening. Some combination of circumstance and Pidge’s patience and cunning, probably. Either way, it’s clear he’s been cornered. He sighs and looks at where she is, sat on his bed and smiling in a way that feels vaguely threatening.

“It’s been a week, Lance. Just ‘fess up. Tell your good friend Pidge what’s wrong.”

 

“I don’t have time for this; I have to study for Haxus’ class,” Lance frowns and throws open the door. Only to run into a wall of Hunk. Hunk catches him by the shoulders before he can topple over and smiles sympathetically. 

“It’s for your own good, dude.”

“I cannot believe you’ve done this,” Lance says, turning to look accusingly at Pidge. “Turned my own best friend against me, you monster.”

“It’s call an intervention, Lance. We’re worried about you,” Pidge says, the smile on her face much, much dimmer. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

Lance looks in between his two friends for a moment, weighing his options. It’s not only clear that he’s been cornered; it’s also clear that he has no way out. He supposes he’s had enough time to come to terms with everything. A whole week. Lance sighs then makes his way over to his bed and sits down next to Pidge, criss-cross applesauce on his sky blue comforter. Hunk closes the door and joins them. Lance takes a second to appreciate them and the support he feels while bracketed by his two caring, albeit rather pushy, friends.

“Soo,” Lance starts, keeping his voice casual. “I kinda sorta picked a fight with Keith?” 

“Oh, that explains it. I’d wondered why two of my best friends had simultaneously self-destructed,” Pidge comments with a single nod. Lance winces.

“Wait; I thought you guys were getting along now?” Hunk asks. “I don’t get it.”

“We are! I mean,” Lance closes his eyes for a moment, “I mean, we were. I was having a really terrible day and, I don’t know man. Shitty things were said.” 

“I mean that sort of explains it,” Pidge muses. Lance waits for the ‘but’, because there’s no way she’s going to let this die right here. “But it feels like there’s more to it? Why were you so upset in the first place. Did he say something rude, because you know how Keith is sometimes. He doesn’t mean to be.”

“No, it wasn’t his fault,” Lance says and he fidgets with his hands. He’s trying to hide the fact that he’s stalling for time but her knows that Pidge and Hunk can both read him like a book. He looks to his right and sees Hunk giving him A Look. “This one’s on me. I got a call from my mom on Sunday morning.”

“Is everything okay?” Pidge asks, and Hunk puts a hand on his shoulder. Lance breathes in through his nose and reminds himself that his friends are supportive. Reminds himself that they won’t be pitying because they both know that he hates being pitied more than anything.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just that money has been tight this year. Mom hasn’t been able to work as much since she hurt her knee two years ago, you guys know, and GGBA isn’t exactly cheap. It’s been hard for them. So anyway, uh, this is probably gonna be my last semester here,” Lance finishes lamely and shrugs.

“Oh geez,” Pidge lets out a whistle, “Again? I know you thought that was gonna be an issue last year too.” Lance nods. There had been the same issue last year but GGBA had been willing to up his scholarship from a quarter of the tuition to half. It had been an excruciatingly stressful couple of months but everything had worked out. He knows there’s not going to be anything of the sort happening this time. 

Hunk reaches behind Lance and gives her a slight nudge. She adds, “Oh right. Not helping. Gotcha.”

“Are you okay, buddy?” Hunk asks, concern clear in his eyes. Lance plasters on a big smile, even though he knows with 100% certainty that his friends can see through it.

“I’ll be fine. It just really, really sucks right now. Good news is that I sent off my acceptance to the Advanced Placement Summer Program so maybe I’ll see you guys over the summer. The scholarship covers it, for some ungodly reason,” Lance forces a laugh. He’d far prefer that the scholarship paid for his actual schooling, but that was just his luck. Pidge and Hunk had both been accepted into the program; they’d gotten their emails just hours after Lance had received his. He knew they were both playing with the ideas of other summer programs though. Pidge was thinking of attending some weird physics related one, last he’d heard.

“Wait so; back to the whole Keith-fight thing. What exactly happened there?” Hunk asks and the conversation zeroes back in.

“Uh,” Lance awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, “he asked me what was up, because y’know, I was super upset, and I kind of freaked out on him?”

“Scale of one to ten, how much of a freak out?” Hunk prompts. 

“Ten.”

“Woah, dude. What did you even _say_?” Hunk asks and there’s surprise clear in his tone. Lance drops his head into his hands.

“I just started ranting about how nice it must be he has a full scholarship and how his parents are lucky for it,” he says miserably. He’s not looking but can clearly hear the gasps that both his friends produce.

“Lance, what the hell??” Pidge asks, swatting at Lance’s shoulder with the intent for harm. It stings, and he’s sure the look on her face is nothing short of murder.

“I knoooow,”he whines, burying his face even further into his hands as his face flames red from the shame. “But I didn’t know at the time! _Ow_! Not that that makes it okay, obviously! I fucked up! I feel terrible!”

“Does Keith know that?” Hunk asks, in a way that would be patronizing if Hunk wasn’t the one saying it.

“No, but only because he won’t talk to me. I’ve been trying all week,” Lance sighs. And it’s true. But every class, conditioning session, even a few times they’ve passed in the hall, Keith has been cold and stony. He remembers that awkward lunch and shudders. Every time he sees Lance coming he turns his head and ignores him. Not that Lance can entirely blame him but, god, it’s going to make practices awkward if he can’t find an opening, and soon. As in, sometime-in-the-next-half-hour kind of soon. Lance groans.

“You need to figure it out, soon,” Hunk says, and he wraps an arm around Lance’s shoulder to give him a quick hug, “You can fix this; I know you can.”

“He won’t even talk to me, Hunk. I really don’t think I can just turn on the García-McClain charm this time,” Lance sighs, but leans his head against his friend’s shoulder anyway. Hugging Hunk always has a soothing effect on him; he feels a little more calm, if not any less dejected.

“Just talk to him before your practice today. I believe in you, buddy.” Hunk says with a few comforting pats to Lance’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I mean, you probably can’t make it worse, at the very least,” Pidge comments, her voice contemplative.

“Thank you, Pidge. Very Helpful,” Lance says with a grimace. He stands up and picks his dance bag up off the floor and slings it over his shoulder. “I guess I should probably go do that. Also, since you two took up all my study time I’m 100% blaming you if I fail my calc test.”

“Noted.”

“If you do, I could probably just hack into admin and change it for you,” Pidge says nonchalantly as she takes off her glasses and cleans the lenses on her shirt. “I had a lot of downtime over Christmas and I picked up a few things.”

“I so- you know what? I’m not even gonna ask. Lock the door when you leave, please,” Lance says. Keith is consistently early to practice, and Lance is hoping he can beat him there for once. Get the upper hand or the higher ground or whatever. “See you.” 

It’s a flawless plan, save for the fact that Keith is already there when Lance arrives, doing his regular warm-up thing. He’s mid- _plie_ exercise, still wearing the sixteen million layers he insists on, and doesn’t seem to hear Lance come in. Lance gently sets his bag down and waits for Keith to finish up his exercise before he calls out.

“Hey,” he says, when the music finally comes to an end. Keith’s head turns sharply at at sound and he jumps. “Sorry; didn’t mean to scare you.” Lance tacks on lamely. Keith gives him a look that reads as thoroughly unimpressed, then turns back around as the music starts up and begins a _tondu_ exercise. Lance sighs, waits for Keith to finish up again, and walks over to him at the _barre_.

“Hey, man. Look; I just wanted to say sorry for being a dick last week. I was way out of line with that, and I’m really sorry,” Lance says, his voice nervous the way it always gets when he apologizes. Keith narrows his eyes at him but doesn’t speak, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that isn’t particularly giving Lance hope. 

“Please forgive me?” Lance tries, and bites his lip nervously. 

“No,” Keith says. His voice is sharp and clear. It’s the first time it’s been directed at Lance in a week, and he flinches. Then he realizes what it is exactly Keith has said, and he feels his heart sink. He’d been expecting it, really, but the verdict still makes him feel tired and heavy.

“I-yeah. Okay,” Lance says, closes his eyes inhales deeply through his nose. Keith hates him, clearly. This is fine. It’s _fine_. Lance opens his eyes and back away, back out of Keith’s space and over to where his bag is. He pulls his phone out of the front pocket of it and unravels the earbuds and pops them in his ears. He knows from experience that it’s going to be at least another ten minutes before Shiro shows up- the guy is punctual to a fault- and he doesn’t want to stand in silence while Keith warms up the whole time. He cues up a playlist of peppy pop music, the kind that Pidge always teases him about liking, and sets about warming up himself.

Lance is still in his own little bubble of misery when Shiro shows up, and it takes him a few minutes to realize he’s even there. Lance takes out an earbud and catches the tail end of the conversation Shiro and Keith are having.

“...man,” Keith is saying, a shit-eating grin on his face. “How old are you now? Three?”

“Shut up, Keith,” Shiro says, but he’s laughing. He has a fond look on his face, and he reaches up to brush the hair out of his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Lance asks, and suddenly the moment is over. Shiro and Keith turn to him, and Keith’s face falls from mirth into pure ice. Shiro turns to give Keith a look that’s both concerned and somewhat stern. Lance isn’t sure how he manages it; it’s probably in the eyebrows.

“Oh, nothing” he says with the warm smile that Lance is beginning to think is his signature expression. Along with the expression of almost parental concern, it’s easily the look Lance has seen on his face the most. “You guys ready to get going?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. He assumes that Keith must nod or something, because Shiro plugs his phone into the AUX and starts playing a piece of music.

“From the top then,” Shiro says as they take their places. He counts them in, and away they go.

If Lance had thought that the Monday practice that had just been Shiro and himself had gone poorly, it was a stunning performance compared to this. He keeps missing steps and falling off of beat, stepping out of _pirouettes_ that had previously been flawless. He skips a whole chunk of choreo by accident at one point, and Keith looks like he wants to start yelling at him. He’s a stumbling mess.

Keith, however, is as perfect as always. His steps seem to have a more glacial quality than usual; a crisp frostiness as he lands and moves through the choreography without a misstep. Every time Lance messes up he throws a look of contempt over his shoulder, and Lance shrivels inwards a little more. 

Shiro is being so patient, gently correcting Lance and reminding him of the steps and timings. His voice is calm as he explains a transition to Lance over and over again. Lance is so embarrassed that he wants to crawl into a hole and die; these are steps he _knows_ and he’s making a fool of himself. It’s a welcome relief when Keith finally speaks and takes the spotlight off of him for a moment.

“I’ve got to leave; I have a physio appointment scheduled for 4:30,” he says, already crossing the room to pick up his hoodie and sweatpants draped over the _barre_.

“Is it your hamstring again?” Shiro asks, the look of concern sliding back on his face. “You need to take care of yourself, Keith.”

“Nah, it’s fine. My tendonitis is just acting up again,” Keith says, scooping up his dance bag as he makes his way out of the studio. “I’ll see you afterwards though; we have that party for you.”

“You guys didn’t have to do that,” Shiro says with a slight laugh and a shake of his head. There’s a slight flush on his cheeks, as if he’s embarrassed by the attention.

“Like Matt and Allura would have allowed that? Think again,” Keith snorts. “I’ll see you around six. Catch ya later Shiro.”

Lance doesn’t miss the fact that Keith gives him a cold look rather than a goodbye.

“What party?” Lance asks instead, as he gathers up his things and starts to stuff them into his bag.

“Oh; my birthday party. My birthday’s technically on the 29th, but it’s not a leap year so we’re celebrating it today. You should come,” Shiro explains, rocking back on his heels a little, his hands both tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Oh shit; happy birthday man!” Lance says, and calls up a grin that sits a little falsely on his mouth.

“Thanks,” Shiro smiles back. “You really should come though.”

Lance takes a second to contemplate it; it could be a lot of fun, really. And then he realizes that _Keith_ is going to be there, and suddenly his smile feels a lot more hollow.

“Thanks man, but uh, I have a lot of calculus homework I have to do tonight,” Lance says, his voice suddenly much more quite, like he’s somehow swallowing half the sound. It’s not a lie, he really does have two pages of questions to do. He’s probably not going to get them done though; there’s a heavy feeling in his gut, and a sort of tiredness. Shiro nods at him, understanding in his eyes.

“The invitation stands; let me know if you change your mind,” Shiro says. Then he, too, is gone, leaving Lance alone in the empty dance studio. 

It’s a little too similar to a week ago, a bit too much of a parallel, and his stomach lurches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballet Terms 101
> 
> 540 battement en rond-[LINK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_LMhWrAJro/) I did my best to describe this in the text but here’s a vid  
> Tondu- Extension of the leg where the pointed toe remains touching the ground  
> Chasse- Travelling move that consists of a step apart, then together, then apart again  
> Plie- Bending the leg at the knee, a warming-up exercise  
> Glissade- Traveling jump that’s low and looks like the dancer is gliding  
> Tour en L’air- Non-travelling turning jump  
> Tombe- Shifting weight onto a leg that’s extended and lifted, looks like a fall 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm on tumblr at [elongated-pasta](https://elongated-pasta.tumblr.com/)


	3. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballet Terms 101
> 
> Jeté- a split leap, travelling  
> plie- bend of the knees; the first exercise done at the barre as a warm up  
> pas des chats- 'step of the cat', a side-travelling jump where both legs are bent while in the air  
> pirouette- Spin in place with foot of one leg placed to knee of the other. Double, triple etc just states how many revolutions there are  
> fouette-similar to a pirouette but the working leg extends and then comes back to the knee while turning  
> glissade-'to glide' low to the ground jump/slide  
> develope- 'developed', draw the working leg up to the knee, then lift and unfold it  
> preparatory position-arms are down, in front of the body in a hoop shape  
> grande pose- one arm raised above the head, and one to the side
> 
> Here's 12k to help atone for how late this is (it's 4k more than planned idk really how that happened)

“...and let’s try to muddle your way through the assignment for Friday, shall we? I’m not expecting great things, but try to answer all the questions. Late assignments won’t be accepted, as I’m sure you all know by now,” Mr. Sendak finished his lecture in the annoyed and disinterested tone he always used when addressing his students. The bell rang and there was a scuffle of binders closing and backpacks being zipped as the class attempted to evacuate the room as fast as humanly possible.

“God,” Pidge groaned, hiking her backpack further up on her shoulder as she walked up to where Keith was still struggling to get his binder into his bag, “we literally handed in an assignment in this class. Like. What the hell? There isn’t even any new material on it! It doesn’t even make sense; why would he want to mark this many things?”

“Shiro said last year that this class was making him go prematurely grey and now I finally understand,” Keith says, finally managing to wrestle his bag shut and slinging it over a shoulder. “I don’t even need this class Pidge; why did I do this to myself?”

“Ugh, you sound like Lance,” Pidge says with a snort as they exit the disgustingly humid classroom, “He’s always saying shit like _”I don’t need calculus! Dancers only need to be able to count to eight!_ ”

“Hmph,” Keith replies, and scuffs a foot against the floor, his mood instantly souring. 

“Anyway,” Pidge continues on, seemingly oblivious to Keith’s stewing, “want to come to the study group we’re having? We can complain about physics together.”

“Who’s in the group?”

“Oh, you know, just me, Hunk and uh, Lance,” Pidge says, speeding up at the end of the sentence. 

Keith sighs. “Look, Pidge. I know what you’re trying to do here, and it’s not going to work. I already have to spend Sunday and Wednesday afternoons with the guy, which trust me, is _more_ than enough.”

“I’ve got no idea what you mean, Keith.”

“I’m not going to forgive him, and I don’t want to see him more than I have to. A study group isn’t going to change that,” Keith’s mouth is set into a frown as he speaks. It was sweet that Pidge was trying to fix things, but she was living in dreamland if she thought that fixing the whole mess was actually doable. It wasn’t actually like they were actively fighting anyway; it was more like a cold war. Tense, awkwardness with very little contact.

“I guess lunch is probably off the table then, huh?” Pidge says with a snort. Keith gets the impression she’s disappointed by his response, but he didn’t understand why. Why would he forgive a guy who was an absolute asshole, not once, but twice, who then also took a week to give a shitty half-assed apology? Sure, it’s making practices a lot more awkward, but Keith’s got his pride and not much else. He sticks with what he knows, and what he knows is shutting down and shutting out.

He ends up eating lunch in the library, hiding a sandwich from the cafeteria behind his books so the librarian doesn’t yell at him. Again. That’s where he’s been spending a lot of his lunchtimes, recently. It’s been good for studying; he doesn’t feel like he’s three inches from failing Sendak’s class anymore, but he does feel a half inch away from death, and he misses Shiro, Allura, and Matt. And rehearsal time Shiro is nowhere near rest of the time Shiro; it’s felt like they’ve hardly seen each other in weeks. He knows it’s his own damn fault, but still.

And it hasn’t helped that his tendonitis has been acting up again. His aware it’s _also_ his own fault, that he needs to take better care of his body. But knowing that hasn’t exactly improved anything. Weekly physio visits have started to fill up way too much of his time and throw off his routine entirely. That’s where he heads after class, for his scheduled appointment, instead of being able to go back to his room and have a much needed nap.

“Okay, Keith. I’m just going to go get the heating bag; you know the drill,” the physiotherapy assistant says. It’s a newer guy, probably fresh out of school because he only looks about twenty-three at most. He’s been around since the start of the school year, and Keith has had him more than a few times. Rolo’s nice enough, but Keith would literally rather be anywhere else. He nods once, then Rolo leaves to get the hot pack.

He takes a textbook out his bag and opens it up, because fuck, if he has to be here he might as well get some work done.

***

“And turn… turn… jeté, good!” Shiro calls out, clapping his hands to keep rhythm as they go over a new section of choreography. Keith lands on his left leg and grimaces at the burst of pain that shoots from his knee but keeps dancing, a look of miserable determination on his face. He’s broken out into a sweat, and it’s only partially due to the exercise. His knee has been hurting for the better half of the practice, but it’s fine. _It’s fine_.

They go into a jumping section that’s playful. Normally, it’s one of Keith’s favourite parts, when any amount of pressure on his leg doesn’t make him want to scream. But it’s fine.It’s fine.

And it is totally fine, right until he goes to step into another turn and his knee decides it's had enough, and he falls, hard.

“Keith, are you alright?” Shiro calls, his choreography persona dropping the second Keith does. The music is still playing as he runs over, the remote for the CD player forgotten in his hand.

“I’m fine. It’s just my knee. I’ll be good to go in a minute,” Keith says from the floor, the wind still knocked out of him, and his hip and shoulder feeling very, very sore. He’s somewhat aware that it’s an incredibly transparent lie, but he soldiers on. 

“We can stop practice for today,” Lance starts to say, and there’s a look of concern on his face that grates on Keith. Who is he to look so worried? He’d made it pretty damn clear he didn’t give a singular shit about Keith. Terrible apology be damned. Keith scowls.

“I said that I’m fine,” he half-says half-growls. Lance takes a step back and holds his hands up in the air, his face twisted into a new expression that Keith doesn’t know what it means.

“Lance is right. We’re done for the day,” Shiro says, his voice gentle. Keith knows he can’t argue it and he lays on the floor for a moment longer. Shiro reaches down and gives him a hand up, yanking him to his feet.

“You know I hate lecturing you,” he starts, with his serious face on, eyebrows all bunched up in concern.

“Then don’t,” Keith says with a shrug, an edge of tiredness in his voice. He takes a cautious step on his left leg, and grimaces. It’s not great, but he figures he’s probably not about to take another tumble before he can get himself back to his room. He’s vaguely aware of Lance shooting him another concerned look before gathering up his things and silently leaving the studio.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs. “Remember when you messed up your leg last year? And we had a big talk about you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes, Shiro, I remember.”

“Are you sure? I’m seeing evidence to the contrary,” Shiro has this face on that Keith knows means he’s onto him. “You only ever throw yourself into dance like this when you’re upset.”

Keith scoffs at that, and Shiro’s eyes narrow. “I’m always this intense; it’s fine.”

“Keith,” Shiro starts to say, his voice much more gentle.

“Just drop it, Shiro. Please,” Keith sighs, and hobbles over to his bag and water bottle that are sitting over by the door. Shiro watches him for a minute in silence before walking over.

“Alright. But I’m helping you to your room,” his tone makes it clear that it’s not up for debate, and Keith nods, because he’s not going to fight over it when he’s just missed a lecture by the skin of his teeth. They end up shuffling back to their dorms in some weird three-legged race where they’re the only competitors. Which is probably for the best, because it takes them forever and a day to get there. 

There’s still a worried look on Shiro’s face when Keith unlocks his door and staggers through it. He falls into his bed with a sigh. The conversation Shiro had alluded to from the year previous comes rushing back to him.

***

“Keith, we need to talk,” Shiro had said one day, slotting himself into a chair next to Keith at lunch. The sounds of a hundred other conversation washed over them, and Keith looked up at Shiro, unwarrantedly nervous. He’d never heard anything good proceeding those words in his entire life. Usually it was “this just isn’t working out’ ‘we’re transferring you to another home” or “your grades are slipping and we _know_ you’re a smart kid, but we’re running ot of justifications”, and even though he knew it was fine; he knew that this was Shiro, for God’s sake, he still felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“What is it?” He’d asked, putting down his fork and doing his best to school his features into an expression that was normal. Or anything except for extreme panic and anxiety, the bar was fairly low.

“I’m worried about you. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard lately, too hard. I know that the showcase is coming up, but you need to breath. Step back a little,” Shiro had said kindly, a wrinkle in between his eyebrows that he always had when he was being oddly parental with Keith.

“I’m not pushing myself too hard. I’m fine,” Keith had replied, feeling relieved, even though he’d known this wasn’t going to be a bad talk. “I’m just doing what I always do.”

And that was true; he always had a sharpened intensity when he danced, when emotions came bubbling up to the surface and he could use them as fuel, as energy. Maybe he was doing a little more, squeezing in more practice time when he should have been studying or relaxing with Pidge. But it wasn’t too much; he could handle himself. He could. 

“That’s not true. I’ve seen you; you’re either working out, or dancing, or asleep. You look exhausted, Keith. Muscle strains don’t just happen for no reason.”

Keith had blinked at Shiro for a moment, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He…. he had a point there. But Keith hated to give up, and he never did it easily. There’d been a part in his brain telling him he knew Shiro was right; that he was throwing everything he had, every spare moment into the showcase and that it was becoming too much. But he ignored it.

“I’m fine, Shiro. Seriously.” 

“Keith. You aren’t. You need to step back and take a breather. You’re killing yourself doing this,” Shiro had said, an edge of distress creeping into his voice. It was was voice that had done it, in the end.

Keith had sighed, crossed his arms with his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. “I guess.. I could practice a little less...”

“Yes?”

“... and maybe get a little more sleep and spend more time doing homework,” Keith said said, grumbling out the last bit. Shiro’s face had cleared up a little, and he’d smiled, just a tiny little thing. But a proud, genuine thing.

***

Lance knows that energy could neither be created or destroyed; it’s the first rule of thermodynamics, and he had taken Intro To Physics, thank you very much. But he’s managed to break it in a feat of science, because he hasn’t had enough energy to function, let alone keep up with everything. He’s on a downward spiral; a sophomore slump a year too late, or something. That’s what he said to his mother last time they skyped, anyway. The truth is uglier than that, and he doesn’t want to worry her more than is strictly necessary. Things are already hard for her; she doesn’t need anything else piled on top of that. She keeps apologizing, and that sits so poorly on Lance’s skin that he isn’t sure what to do with it all.

And he knows it’s dumb that he’s so messed up over this whole Keith thing that’s only part of this, but he can’t get over it. He’s not that kind of person; he’s not unnecessarily cruel. Part of him want to just say whatever, Keith hates him now, but the rest of him doesn’t want to accept it. He was just starting to get along with Keith, and as much as he hates it, he kind of likes the guy. But all of his apologies have fallen on deaf ears, and he isn’t sure what else to do. So he’s just miserable.

And rehearsal is just making that worse; piling on top of all of his other problems. The cohesiveness they’d managed to cobble together had fallen apart. Things are just as bad as they had been at the start. Lance is frustrated, Shiro is exasperated, and Keith is…. Well, Lance isn’t sure on what’s going on with him. Angry, probably? Pissed off, at the very least, if the glares are anything to go by.

Lance blows out a sigh, and frowns at the textbook in front of him for a second before he closes it. He can worry about logarithms another time. Like, preferably never. 

It’s the point in the day where classes are done for the day, but it’s not quite time for supper. Normally, it’s the time of day that Lance uses for homework, or bothering Pidge while she’s trying to do physics if he’s caught up. But it’s just not happening that day; his brain is doing too many things at once for him to focus on anything. Lance sighs, again, because this just really isn’t his day, and clambers off his bed to shove his feet back into his shoes. He hooks a sweater off the end of his bed and throws it on.

It’s a beautiful day out; the California sun is shining down on campus, and its delightfully warm. The sweater is most definitely overkill, but it tends to cool down fast at night, and there’s nothing worse than ruining a nice walk by being frozen. He heads to the elevators, fingers crossed that maybe he’ll see Pidge and be able to annoy her. When the doors spring open, it’s not Pidge that’s standing in the elevator. It’s Keith. 

Who’s scowling at him the minute they lay eyes on each other. Lance is briefly tempted to just wait for the next one, but the longer he stays inside, the stronger his need to feel the sun on his skin is. He steps into the elevator.

“Hey. How’s your leg doing?” he says, and leans up against the railing that elevators always seem to have, for no reason. What justifiable reason is there to have a railing inside an elevator? Lance personally would love to know. 

Keith’s scowl lessen just a little, Lance thinks. Though it’s very possible that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Fine,” Keith says shortly, and looks at the displayed floor number impatiently watching the numbers growing smaller as they near the ground floor. 

“Glad you’re feeling better,” Lance says awkwardly, and joins Keith in staring at the number, wishing for immediate release from the awkwardness contained in the elevator, which is maybe a lot to ask a number for, but still. For a moment there’s just the quiet swooshing sound of the elevator descending. And then there’s a jolt as they come to a stop, and then, nothing.

“Did we just… stop?” Lance asks after a long moment. He turns to Keith, who’s back to looking positively murderous again. “Are we stuck?” 

“It would,” Keith says through his teeth as he jams a thumb hard into the emergency call button on the number panel, “appear that way.”

“Shit.”

Keith doesn’t reply, just hits the call button again and then steps back with a very frustrated sigh, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His whole person looks like the definition of tense.

“Are you okay? Are you like, claustrophobic or something?” Lance asks, peering a little closer at Keith. He’s not loving the whole stuck-in-an-elevator-with-a-guy-who-hates-me thing very much either, but Keith looks like he’s about to lose it.

“No. I’d just literally rather be anywhere else than here,” Keith says. The _with you_ isn’t said, but it’s heavily implied by his tone, anyway. Lance sighs, then checks his phone. They’re probably going to be in here for a while; according to Pidge the elevators have been extra screwy lately, so he isn’t really surprised by it. Just unhappy and inconvenienced and with _Keith_ , for the rest of the foreseeable near future. So much for that walk in the sunshine. Lance clears his throat awkwardly, and glances over at Keith, who’s fixing him with a slightly softer version of the murder glare.

Lance isn’t exactly itching to do this; he hates having hard conversations. Confrontation is not something he’s well equipped for. But this has been the only time all month he’s managed to corner Keith somewhere where he can’t just turn and run away. It’s probably even better this way; he doesn’t have time to freak himself out. He takes in a deep breath, trying to calm the churning anxiety in his stomach that’s suddenly made a guest appearance, and then speaks.

“So, uhm, I know I already apologized and you didn't accept but,” Lance pauses and takes in a gulp of air because the first one did nothing to ease his nervousness,“I really am sorry that I said those shitty things. I never would have said anything like that if I had been thinking clearly.”

“It took you a week to apologize and the best you could come up with was 'sorry for being a dick’. Three weeks later, and now it just sounds like you're making excuses, García-McClain,” Keith says in a completely dead voice, seeming rather unsurprised by the sudden change in conversation. He stares Lance down, and Lance clears his throat awkwardly.

“No! And I _was_ such a dick to you, I know. I'm not trying to excuse that because I know it wasn't okay. I know saying that ‘I never would have said it’ is like, zero consolation, I just,” Lance says nervously, because _fuck_ , this isn't going the way he'd planned it out in his head every other time he’d thought about this conversation. The only thing that was accurate is how sweaty his palms currently are. “I'm just trying to explain myself, if you'll let me?”

“We’re stuck in a fucking elevator together; I can't exactly stop you,” Keith says. There's a fierce expression on his face as he leans back against the mirrored elevator wall. Expectation mixed with something Lance can't quite put his finger on. 

“Thank you,” Lance says gratefully, unable to keep the surprise off his face. He hadn't planned on getting this far; had thought that Keith would shut him down or just straight up ignore him. 

“Okay so. I don't know if you know this, but honestly why would you? But, uh, I'm a partial-scholarship student?” Lance starts. Keith’s face is blank, but Lance continues on, “Alright so, hold on to that fact. 

“Because this school is fucking ridiculously expensive, and so is dance in general, money in my family has been tight. Not anything crazy but, you know, it's been stressful for my parents since I got accepted here. Last year was,” Lance sighs before continuing, and scratches absently at his neck “last year was bad. Just one shitty thing after another. There were a couple of months where I didn't think I'd be able to come back for junior year.” Keith’s eyes slightly widen at this, but his expression doesn’t really change. 

“Obviously I did,” Lance says with a bitter laugh,” but it's been goddamn stressful. My parents keep telling me it's fine, but I have two siblings who still live at home. Who am I to make everything so hard on them, you know? They probably resent me for it, and I don't blame them. I would, too, if I were them. My mom keeps apologizing like somehow this is her fault and it’s just- a lot. 

“So yeah. That day when I picked that fight with you out of nowhere, it was because of that. I'd just found out, for the second time, that this is most likely my last semester at the Garrison, and I was stressed and frustrated and I took out on you, like some colossal asshole, when you were just trying to help. And I'm really, really sorry about it; you didn’t deserve that. I know it's no excuse for acting like I did, but that's the whole story,” Lance finishes all in one go. Keith is regarding him in silence, his head cocked to the left slightly and the murder glare gone from his expression

“Oh,” he hums after a moment, “I wasn't expecting that. You're right though; you did act like a huge asshole, and there's no excuse for it.”

Lance flinches involuntarily, and closes his eyes to brace for Keith rejecting him again. He gets a flash of Keith a month ago, staring him down and saying ‘No’ in a voice sharp enough make Lance bleed. He hadn’t realized how strongly he’d wanted to be Keith’s friend until he’d fucked it all up, and now he’s just going to get another reiteration of how much Keith hates his guts. Great.

“However. I've been in your position before,” Keith says, and his voice is soft, careful, not the harsh anger Lance is anticipating. He opens his eyes to watch Keith while he continues speaking. “I know what it's like to take things out in other people when really the one you're mad at is yourself. Or the world. Or whatever. So, I think I can forgive you.”

“For real?” Lance says, and his jaw is practically dragging on the floor but his eyes are bight. 

“But don’t think you can get away with this again,” Keith says, and the fierceness is back, “I will literally kick your ass to space if you do.” 

“Keith. Buddy. You won’t regret this,” Lance says, his voice dripping with relief. He feels a smile start to grow across his face. “Does this mean we’re pals? I just want to clarify.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. This is like,” Keith pauses, and his brows knit as he struggles to find the word he wants, “a truce. This is a truce.”

“I can work with that,” Lance says, even as his heart sinks a little. He knows it was a little too much to expect, but he’d hoped anyway. But a truce is infinitely so much better than what they’d had literally three minutes ago that Lance isn’t going to let that disappoint him. He leans over and pushes the emergency call button, even though Keith has already hit it twice. “Hey; twenty bucks says that Pidge is the one on the other side of the doors when they finally get us out of here.”

“You’re on.”

***

“So,” Lance says as he trudges through the hallways, the collar of his uniform shirt feeling uncomfortably warm against his throat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but it’s not doing a whole lot to help the fact that it feels like he’s slowly being turned into soup. “Studying. We’re studying. That’s a thing we’ve decided to do.”

“I know; who even are we?” Pidge groans, appearing to wilt under the weight of both her backpack and her dance bag. They’ve just come out of afternoon classes, feeling and looking sweaty and unenergized.

“This is totally not our brand. Hunk isn’t even going to be with us; we can’t blame this weird burst of sanity on him,” Lance wails. They’re almost to Pidge’s dorm, which has been decreed as the Study Zone for the afternoon after they both realized they had mountains of work to do in a rather short time frame. It’s the result of extreme procrastinating and just complete lack of motivation, with a dash of delayed self-preservation. 

“It’s just pure madness,” Pidge says as she pulls her keys out of her pocket.

“Oh, hey,” Lance says, doing the thing where he thinks he’s being casual but is clearly about to say something that is anything but, “Keith and I made up?”

“What?” Pidge says, fumbling to catch her keys before they slip through her fingers. When she turns to look at Lance, her eyebrows are raised halfway to her hairline.

“Yeah, when we got stuck in that elevator together for like half an hour or whatever? I apologized for being the biggest asshole of the century and he, y’know, kinda had to listen to me seeing as how we were stuck together. In an elevator. Which is ridiculously cliche, now that I think about it,” Lance says, frowning at his sudden revelation. Pidge shakes her head at him in a way that indicates she thinks he’s absolutely hopeless. 

“He forgave you, then?” She says, turning to slot her key into the doorknob. Lance hums as she swings the door open.

“Sort of? He said we’re at a truce. Whatever that means,” Lance shrugs. It’s better than Keith hating his guts, so he’s not really complaining. “Which is cool. Glad he doesn’t want to like, murder me on sight. Words cannot describe how frosty showcase rehearsals were. Are? I don’t know if that’s going to change or not, yet.”

“I’m kind of surprised that he forgave you. I love you, Lance, but you were a big ole prick,” Pidge muses, dropping her bag on the floor and immediately pulling off her uniform pants to put on a pair of pyjama pants.

“Warning would be nice, Pidge,” Lance says, averting his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. 

“Lance. I’m tired and sweaty and don’t give a fuck. Also I’m pretty sure quick changes backstage have completely ruined any sense of shame either of us have.”

“Fair. Can I borrow a shirt before I sweat to death in this?” Lance says, pulling at the front of the uniform shirt in a weak attempt to create a little airflow on his skin.

“You know you’re a giant compared to me, right?” Pidge questions, an eyebrow shooting up her forehead. Lance figures the coast is probably clear and casts her a look.

“Pidge. I’m tired and sweaty and don’t give a fuck,” Lance parrots back. Pidge rolls her eyes at him but tosses him a grey t-shirt. He makes quick work of unbuttoning the stifling uniform shirt, which is probably made of polyester or something, because it is the exact opposite of breathable. Pidge is right; the shirt isn’t really too small, per se, because Pidge tends to wear her shirts baggy, but it is too short. It’s the awkward length between full length shirt and crop top, showing the slightest section of skin above his slacks. Lance shrugs and slumps onto Pidge’s bed, doing his best to avoid his backpack sitting at his feet.

“Work time, Lance,” Pidge instructs. She’s already set up at her desk, books and calculator out on the desk with a pencil in her hand. Lance sighs but complies, pulling out all his notes and his calc textbook. They work for about five minutes before Pidge breaks the comfortable silence they’ve fallen into. First with a frustrated growl, and then with actual human speech.

“Wait. If you and Keith have made up, that means I can invite him over and we can commiserate over this hellish assignment together. Text him for me,” she directs, making a hand motion over her shoulder that Lance has zero idea what it’s supposed to actually mean. 

“It’s your phone, you text him.”

“Yeah, but it’s in my pants, which are closer to you than to me,” Pidge says. It’s a fact that Lance can’t dispute. He’s feeling an incredible inclination to point out again, that they are _her_ pants, but he has an idea that it’s just an argument that’s going to run in circles. He’s seen Pidge and her older brother Matt argue themselves around each other for hours, and he’s not exactly itching to experience that for himself, first hand. 

Begrudgingly, he removes himself from where he’s situated, and goes through the pockets of Pidges pants, which she’s just left on the floor, like an animal. He hands it to her to unlock, hoping that she’ll just text Keith herself, but it’s no dice.

After a long moment of considering exactly what to send, Lance just decides to go with what feels natural.

_Keith whatcha doingggg_  
**Pidge???**  
_This is her phone yes_  
**who is this?**  
_Lance. Do you know anyone else this charming?_  
**oh. I’m doing homework**  
_Perfect. Come study w us in Pidge’s room_

Honestly, Lance isn’t surprised that Keith is even more surly over text. It makes perfect sense, all things considered. He sets Pidge’s phone down and settles back down into his perch at the foot of her bed, a textbook balanced precariously on his leg as he tries to juggle his binders around to find the set of notes he needs. No one’s ever accused him of being organized, and they probably never will. 

“So, is Keith coming or what?” Pidge asks from her desk, half-twisted around in her chair. While he wasn’t looking, she’d pulled her hair up into the messiest bun Lance has ever seen in his life, and there’s pens and pencils sticking out of it at weird angles. It’s… certainly a look, especially paired with the cactus print pajamas she’s got on.

“I think so? I didn’t really give him a choice, I just sort of told him to come over,” Lance shrugs, then makes a triumphant noise as he manages to locate the correct set of notes.

“Gee. That sounds like it’ll work,” Pidge rolls her eyes, and then blows at a chunk of hair that’s fallen out of her haphazard hair-do and into her face. “I was hoping he’d come up because this physics assignment is killing me. Sendak either gives us a million assignments without giving us anything new to learn, or he gives us an assignment before he’s given us the information! He’s satan incarnate, Lance. If I could murder him and get away with it, I would.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Lance says, head jerking up and looking rather alarmed at the abrupt change in tone.

“Lance. He’s a dick. He won’t stop calling me Katie. I’ve asked him eight times. Eight,” Pidge says slowly, and her eyes look positively murderous. She’s tapping her pencil against the page in a way that manages to be threatening.

“Oh, never mind, carry on then,” Lance nods understandingly and goes back to reading through his notes, which would probably be an easier task if his handwriting didn’t rival that of a chicken’s. 

They work in tandem for a while, mostly in silence. Every now and then one of them makes a pained sound, or a noise of frustration as they try to work through a problem that just isn’t having it. Lance is half-way to just giving up and starting on the English paper he’s been putting off, when there’s a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Lance calls, bouncing up off of Pidge’s bed and almost tripping himself over a stack of books on the floor. He manages to catch himself against the wall with a loud thud before he can fall all the way down.

“Watch out,” Pidge says without turning around, a good four seconds too late. Lance snorts, but doesn’t dignify her with a response. 

He swings the door open to find a rather grumpy and bedraggled looking Keith. He’s got on baggy sweatpants and a faded red sweater that’s just bordering on the line between pink and red. His hair is wet, like he just got out of the shower, and his backpack is slung over his shoulder. He blinks owlishly at Lance.

“Hi,” Lance offers after a silence that lasts a beat too long, feeling more than a little awkward. He’d _invited_ Keith, he had no reason for being so weird about him actually showing up. Well. Pidge had done the inviting but he’s the one who actually sent the text. It was ridiculous. Except for the fact that until recently they’d sort of been enemies and now they’re maybe sort of kind of friends? It’s enough to make a guy’s head spin.

“Hi,” Keith says, toneless. “Can I come in now?”

“Oh, uh-” Lance stumbles over his words, pulling the door open further so Keith can step into the tiny dorm room Pidge calls home.

“Is that Keith? Tell him to get his ass in here before I go murder Sendak,” Pidge calls, and there’s a noise of furious scribbling in a notebook. It’s a sound that through many years of friendship, Lance has come to associate with impending crises and general doom. He steps out of Keith’s way and goes back to where he’s been sitting on Pidge’s bed. Keith plops himself down on the floor, legs criss-crossed and starts pulling all his stuff out of his bag.

“Sendak. Is. The. Devil.” Keith says after a long moment, punctuating each word with a vicious prod at his calculator. Apparently this is his first look at the assignment, and he sounds venomous. 

“He’s an asshole. A dick.” Pidge replies fiercely, sounding like she’s about to start listening several more colourful synonyms. 

“A Sen-dick,” Lance supplies, not looking up from his work, because _dammit_ he’s almost got this equation. When he’s met with silence he looks up to see Pidge and Keith looking at him, smiles slowly growing across their faces. “What?”

“Lance. You’re a genius,” Pidge whispers, her voice one of awe. Keith doesn’t add anything, but the grin on his face is more than enough confirmation that he agrees.

“Can I get that in writing?” Lance raises an eyebrow. The moment is over immediately and Pidge sticks her tongue out at him before turning around to get back to her work. Lance struggles through two more calc problems before slamming his textbook shut with a flourish and stretching out like a cat, cracking his back and popping one of his shoulders. Pidge’s borrowed shirt rides up way more than is probably appropriate, but he can’t be bothered to care.

“Calc is gonna be the death of me,” he groans. “How’s physics going?”

“I’m gonna make Newton sorry he ever discovered gravity,” Keith growls, and Pidge nods vehemently. They look like they’ve made a lot more progress than they had last time Lance had asked; the better part of two pages, if he’s correct. They also looked incredibly grouchy and pissed off,.

“Okay, so. Not good. Cool. Gotcha,” Lance rambles, slowly putting his belongings into his bag. He looks at his English notebook, the assignment sheet for the dreaded essay is peaking out over the top edge, making weird, literary eyes at him. He jams the notebook into his bag and zips it up quickly before he can think about it. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

He lounges on Pidge’s bed; soaking in the atmosphere of productivity without actually adding to it in any way, shape, or form. Keith and Pidge continue to make clipped, frustrated remarks as they try to teach themselves whatever it is that’s going on over in physicsland. While Lance isn’t paying attention, Keith has managed to wedge himself on top of Pidge’s desk as they try to do one of the last, and therefore most difficult questions. When Lance does finally glance back up, he’s confused as to how exactly Keith’s managing to sit like that, and how on earth it could possibly be comfortable. 

“And done! Bite me, Sen-dick!” Pidge crows, throwing down her pencil. Keith looks tiredly triumphant as he unfolds himself from his weird gremlin way of sitting and stands with both feet on the floor like a real person.

“Is that gonna be a thing now?” Lance asks, propping himself up on two elbows and looking at Pidge quizzically. Her forest green duvet cover is wrinkled and mussed from all his rolling around during the past forty or so minutes, but he’s not doing anything to rectify it.

“Oh yeah. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard, and you’re never getting it back. It’s mine now,” Pidge replies, sounding a lot less flustered. She’s either calmed down, or reached a level of anger so strong that rage itself is behind her and she’s entered a state of calm, calculated fury. Either way Lance is a little freaked out. 

“Okay, well. Make sure to use it responsibly,” Lance says, and rolls around to flop on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Pidge has stuck little glow in the dark stars on it, and the constellations, Lance is sure, will all check out if he could be bothered to look them up. He can’t be, but that’s not really the point. “So. What now?”

“Mmm, dinner maybe? It’s probably late enough that they’re serving it. Do you have the time?” Pidge muses, a thumb pressed into her chin as she thinks. She’s sitting backwards on the chair now, the back of it bracketed by her pajama clad legs.

Lance wiggles his phone out of his pocket and checks it. “It’s six thirty four. It’s all system go for dinner.”

“Awesome. Keith, you wanna come with?”

“Huh?” Keith says, shaking his head like he’s been zoned out the whole time and only just pulled himself back into reality. “Oh, uh. No thanks. I have that bio lab write-up to slam out before I can do anything else. Have fun though.”

“Alright,” Pidge says with a nod as Keith starts to gather all his stuff up and jam it back into his bag with total abandon. He slings the bag back over his shoulder and scrubs a hand through his hair. Lance notices for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Keith looks a little tired. There’s dark smudges under his eyes that are becoming more obvious the longer Lance looks at him.

“I’ll catch you around, man,” Lance says, aiming for friendly but landing somewhere a little softer, a little more tired. Keith gives him a short wave, and then he’s opening the door and disappearing behind it into the hallway. Lance stares at the closed door for second, lost in thought.

“C’mon,” Pidge says, jostling Lance as she sits down to pull a pair of beat up sneakers onto her feet. “Let’s go before all the good shit is gone. If I miss out on french fries again because of you, there will be hell to pay.”

***

Shiro looks so confused and relieved when Keith and Lance walk into practice the next week, talking quietly to each other. It’s so different from the last time they were together that Lance isn’t even blaming him. The up and downs that Shiro has experienced in these rehearsals have probably been stressful on him, Lance realizes as he puts on his ballet slippers. He’s got just as much riding on this showcase, maybe even more than he and Keith do. Or, at least Keith, Lance thinks miserably. For both himself and Shiro, this is the last chance the have to shine at the showcase. Lance plans to go out with a bang and a sparkle; anything less than perfection is unacceptable now. 

“Warm up, guys, and we’ll get started. I think I’ve finally picked a piece of music for the piece. Some of the counts are going to have to change, but I’m sure you’re both up to that,” Shiro says, and checks over some of his notes, keeping an eye trained on the two juniors who have lined themselves up at the bar, dressed in enough layers to protect themselves against an Alaskan winter.

“What do you normally do for a warm up?” Lance asks over his shoulder as he dips into a basic _plie_ exercise. There’s no music playing, but that’s fine; Lance could do _plies_ in his sleep. He’s had enough horrifying dreams about showing up in only his underwear to Coran’s class that he probably actually _has_ indulged in some unconscious ballet exercises.

“A bit of everything, I guess. Usually I’ll just do the basic exercises the teachers have us do. Sometimes I’ll just do cardio for five minutes; it depends on how much time I have,” Keith shrugs, keeping his arms extended out in a graceful second position as he moves through the basic moves with such fluidity that Lance feels a small pang of jealousy.

“Oh, yeah same,” Lance nodes, and transitions into another exercise. They chat back and forth for a few more minutes before Shiro calls time on the warm-up. Lance pulls his hoodie off over his head, and feels the cool studio air hit his bare midriff. The studios are starting to heat up now as the temperature start to soar, and he’s dressed sensibly in a cropped baby-blue tee and his usual spandex shorts to attempt to combat that. He’d left his sweatpants and hoodie on until the last minute, though he’s almost wishing he’d left them on for just a little longer; there’s a slight chill in the air as Shiro herds them to the center of the floor. 

Lance turns to face Keith for their opening pose, and notices that Keith has gone sort of pink; probably warmer than Lance was from the warm up, if he had to take a guess. Keith’s eyes snap away from Lance as they step into their pose, and wait for Shiro to start talking about the counting changes. There are slight rustling noises as the legs of Keith’s tapered track pants jar against each other. It’s a different look for him, and Lance doesn’t mind it, not one bit. Keith’s a good looking guy, and Lance finds himself looking away sharply, feeling a little flustered at this sudden realization. 

“Okay guys, so the counting stays the same until the _pas des chats_ and then it’s a step, which puts you on a six, instead of five and- you know what? Let me just play the song for you guys,” Shiro starts to explain, and then cuts himself off when he sees the perplexed faces in front of him trying to reformat the steps in their heads. He strides over to the music player, and scrolls through his music library until he finds the song he wants. It starts playing with no announcement or ceremony.

It’s a very pretty piece. Expressive, Lance thinks as the music swells during the part he thinks is where he and Keith are flying across the stage, leaping and running at each other. It quickly turns sad, the anger and energy dissolving into something that feels almost mourning. It feels like the piece of music was created specifically for Shiro’s choreography. The song comes to a poignant end, and Lance smiles broadly.

“Wow. That’s perfect for your choreography, Shiro. How’d you even find it?” Lance asks, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet with renewed excitement and motivation.

“Actually, Keith suggested it. He listens to some weird music, but he had a few recommendations, and this one really clicked,” Shiro says, waving off the responsibility to Keith with a smile and a small gesture of his hand.

“Wow. That’s awesome,” Lance says, and smiles at Keith. “It fits so well; good job, Keith.”

“It’s just a song,” Keith says with a nonchalant shrug. Lance smiles a little wider, and then looks back to Shiro.

“Ready to try it? You guys are probably smart enough to figure it out on your own, huh? Don’t need me to baby you,” Shiro says, a little mischievousness slipping into his tone. Lance has a feeling that this is Shiro’s revenge on them for being so terrible to work with, and he groans.

“C’mon! From the top! And I want to see performance faces,” Shiro says, adopting a voice similar to Coran’s as he quotes something the instructor says in almost every class during centre work. Keith groans this time, good-naturedly, but they resume their positions on the floor. This time Shiro counts the music in, and then they’re off.

And it’s a shambling mess of flubbed steps and half-assed movements; even Keith, perfectly graceful, endlessly elegant Keith is stumbling all over himself as he tries to work in the new counts. They keep catching sight of each other and laughing as they scramble to keep up with the music. They do the section that had been the most difficult for them to master, the _540 battement en rond_ with the place switch. It goes about as well as everything else, which is to say, not well. There’s almost a collision, and Lance swears filthily under his breath as he flops down on the floor to avoid smashing into Keith. Keith looks at him for half a second before he collapses in laughter, joining Lance on the floor as the music plays itself out. Shiro walks over to them, where they’re still laughing intermittently and trying to catch their breaths.

“Well. That could have gone better,” Shiro says, but he’s grinning. This isn’t choreographer Shiro, but regular Shiro, and he plops himself down onto the floor with them. “But considering the circumstances, it could have gone a lot worse so. I guess I can’t complain.”

“I almost took Keith out at the knees,” Lance says, and rolls over on his back so he’s staring straight up at the ceiling. “And I think we both fell like, four times each. Shiro, you are an evil, evil man.”

“I lost track on my _pirouettes_ and the room is still spinning,” Keith adds in a voice so forlorn that it sets Lance off into laughter again. 

“I think we don’t need anymore practice. This is perfect for the showcase; we’ll win first place, no doubt,” Lance manages to get out once he’s calmed down a little more. Shiro barks out a laugh.

“Okay guys, take a five minute break and we’ll try again. But maybe slower this time,” Shiro is still grinning, and it’s brilliant, blinding. He looks immensely proud of himself for his little prank while Lance and Keith lay on the floor, still trying to properly catch their breaths. Shiro gets up and looks back over his notes. Lance army crawls over to his water bottle and empties half of it in one go while Keith remains lying on the floor, curled softly into himself in a way that’s almost cat-like.

“You good, Keith?” Lance calls out, setting his water bottle down on the floor and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yep.”

“You want your water?”

“Nah. Thanks though,” Keith replies. Lance considers the pros and cons of crawling back over to the center of the room, but decides against it and just walks like a normal person. Shiro’s watching them, that perplexed look on his face again. Lance can understand the confusion; he’s honestly surprised by the difference in Keith as well. He’s not exactly warm, but it’s not the frosty one-word retorts and insults that Keith had used as his only form of communication with Lance for weeks. It’s such a big step; even more than whatever Lance had thought a truce would entail. It’s… nice.

Lance stretches out briefly, pulling his leg up to stretch his quads, and sneaks a glance at Keith who’s twisted around and is sitting up on the floor, idly gripping his ankles and pulling himself into a forward stretch. They catch each other’s eyes, and share a smile.

“Alright,” Shiro says, and he claps his hands together once, breaking the silence of the moment. “Ready to go again, gang?”

 

Keith tries to sneak out of the studio before Shiro can realize what’s happening. It was a tough practice, probably their toughest yet, and he’s sweaty and tired. He saw Shiro’s face during the rehearsal and he knows what it means; another heart-to-heart that he frankly doesn’t have the energy for. He’s got a shower and physics homework calling his name. He pulls his red hoodie back on, picks up his bag and very nearly makes it out of the door before Shiro calls his name.

“Keith. You got a minute?” 

He sighs, and turns around. “Yeah. What do you want?”

“Are you and Lance okay now? Practice was a lot more positive than it has been for a while, and you guys were chatting without you looking like you wanted to rip his eyes out, and without him looking miserable,” Shiro shoulders his bag and unplugs his phone from the AUX cord. 

“Yeah; he apologized and explained everything. I guess he’s been having a really hard time lately so,” Keith shrugs, noncommittally, though he does feel a pang of sympathy when he remembers how earnest Lance had been when he’d turned that stuck elevator into a confessional box, or whatever it was that people talked about their sins in. “We made a truce.”

“A truce?” Shiro looks amused.

“Yeah. We’re not like, friends or anything,” Keith grumbles, and then walks out of the studio. He’s intended for it to be a dramatic exit, so Shiro will stop heckling him, but it doesn’t work out because Shiro just follows him out of the studio, matching him step for step.

“Really? You looked pretty friendly to me,” Shiro says, looking all innocent when Keith turns to give him a warning glare.

“Shiro,” Keith huffs out, but doesn’t add anything else to his statement. It’s enough though, because Shiro instantly drops it.

“I’m just proud of you, bud. Forgiving people can be hard,” Shiro says, and Keith can’t find it in himself to glare anymore. 

“You’re telling me,” Keith says with a roll of his eyes, sounding very put upon. Shiro barks out a laugh, and ruffles his hair. Keith ducks out of the way, trying to look grumpy but not managing it. A lot of the tension Shiro had been carrying around for the past couple of weeks seems to have melted away. Keith feels guilty, knowing he was part of it, but it’s nice seeing Shiro like this, not weighed down with worry. “I’m sorry about this whole thing, by the way.”

“What whole thing?”

“You know,” Keith says, gesturing in a way that’s completely unhelpful as they walk down the hallway towards the elevators, “me and Lance being terrible. It probably was pretty shitty for you, so yeah, sorry.”

“When did you get so mature?” Shiro asks, teasing, “This isn’t the angsty little Keith I used to know; what have you done to him?” He raises his hand as if to ruffle Keith’s hair again, and he bats Shiro’s arm away, laughing.

“If you don’t like it I can go back. Start blasting My Chemical Romance at three in the morning again,” Keith grins, and it’s wolfish, just absolutely evil.

“I take it back,” Shiro says, holding up both hands as if self-defense. “Mature adult Keith is the best, may we bow before him.”

“Good.”

***

Another day, and another physiotherapy appointment, Keith thinks bleakly as he sits in the waiting area outside the GGBA’s health clinic. It’s way more convenient to just have their own staff on campus, due to the amount of student injuries that happen over the course of the school year. Whoever has the time slot ahead of Keith has run over their time, clearly, and Keith slumps even further into his chair with a sigh. His knee twinges as if out of spite, and he levels an unimpressed look at it.

“Why are you glaring at your leg like you want to rip it off your body?” A familiar voice asks as they flop down into the chair next to Keith, a backpack thudding against the ground as they do. Keith looks up and sees, who else, but Lance.

“Because I do,” Keith says a bit dryly. Lance’s got a look on his face like he’s not sure whether or not Keith is joking, but after a second he laughs. “I’ve never seen you here before; I didn’t know you had physio appointments?”

“Yeah; usually I come on Saturdays but they bumped me up to Friday this week. Not that I’m complaining because I was just gonna do homework today anyway, and this is saving me from it,” Lance says easily, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair in a complicated drumbeat that Keith can’t keep track of.

“Oh; that makes sense,” Keith says lamely, then looks back down at his knee and frowns. “Personally, I’d prefer to never have to be here.”

“You gotta take care of yourself though. It’s better than getting a more serious, permanent injury,” Lance says with a shrug, and leans back in his chair just a little. “I think I’m reaching the end of my treatment though. Achilles tendinitis is a bitch but at least it’s relatively easy to fix. Just gotta do the-”

“The exercises,” Keith finishes, “Yeah, okay Shiro.” Lance laughs again, a tinkling sound that Keith thinks is warm, inviting. He smiles.

“He’s right though! You can’t get better if you don’t do what they tell you. Nyma and Rolo know what’s up.”

“Yeah, yeah, _mom_ , I get it,” Keith says, fake annoyed, but it’s clear to both of them that he doesn’t really mean it. Lance smiles and rolls his eyes, like Keith is a lost cause and he’s giving up on trying to talk any sense into him. Keith’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pants, and it’s just Pidge reminding him to do the homework for Sendak’s class. Keith groans, and jams his phone back into his pocket after thumbing back a quick reply that’s almost entirely expletives.

“You okay, man?” Lance asks, concern clear in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah. Pidge just texted me and reminded me we have homework to do for our asshole physics teacher,” Keith looks down at his bag, then back up at the clock on the wall. He wonders if he’ll have time to start it before his appointment starts. After a brief moment of consideration he decides, probably not, and sighs.

“Oh; Sen-dick. Pidge complains about him all the time. He sounds like a real piece of work,” Lance says sympathetically. “At least you have all weekend to get it done.”

Keith nods, but with a facial expression that says that fact is little consolation. He hates physics, honestly. Part of it might be due to the fact that Sendak is clearly second in command to Lord Satan himself, and spends all his spare time in hell making sure everyone is at optimal suffering. But mostly it’s because he just hates physics as a concept. He only took it because he was good at it, and he knew that there was a really good chance Pidge would be in his class. It was supposed to be well, not _easy_ , but certainly not this awful. 

Keith and Lance fall into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable or forced. It just is. Lance fiddles with the arm of the chair still, switching up the beats he’s tapping into the cracked pale-blue vinyl. Keith watches him for a second before Lance looks up, the intent to say something written across his face. His eyebrows are drawn together, and he clears his throat. 

“So. The Advanced Placement Summer Program. When you said that was one of the best summer courses you’ve done, did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, a little surprised that this is where the conversation has gone; he barely even remembers the conversation they’d had about the summer program. “The instructors are all really good; they bring in the senior classes teachers and sometimes they get people from other ballet schools to come in and do seminars. It’s really cool. Why do you ask?”

“It just seems kind of lame to go to the program run by your own school? People are always so unimpressed when someone says that’s what they’re gonna be doing over the summer,” Lance tries to say casually, but he seems a little on edge. So much so that Keith picks up on it, and he knows he’s not the best at noticing others emotions all the time.Or anytime. Really. Social cues are sometimes not really his thing.

“Yeah well, those people are assholes. It’s so exclusive; they’re probably just pissed they didn’t get accepted,” Keith’s reply is a little more fierce than he means for it be, and he shakes his head to help calm himself a little. “They take kids from other schools as well; it’s not like they’re just picking kids out of our school for it.”

“That’s true,” Lance says, but he’s not making eye contact, and he doesn’t exactly sound convinced. Keith gets the impression that this is something Lance has been holding onto for a long, long while.

“Hey. A lot of kids who go to this school are dicks. You’ve probably noticed,” Keith says, and Lance snorts, which Keith take as a sign of encouragement and he continues on. “So when they can’t accomplish something that, frankly, is really hard to achieve, they just make it seem like it’s not worth their time. They’ve made it into some stupid elitism thing. It’s dumb, and I hate it. If you’ve been accepted, you should take the offer.”

Lance looks up at him, finally making eye contact, and he nods. “I already did, because it’s honestly the only place I can afford to go to this summer, but it just felt like a… like a consolation prize, I guess. But you’re right. People here are asses, and if you say it’s good, then… I trust you.”

Keith nods, and he feels very satisfied. His face echoes the small smile that’s on Lance mouth. He thinks about Shiro telling him that he and Lance were too friendly to be just at a truce, and he thinks that maybe Shiro was right about it. Not that he would ever tell him that. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but Rolo sticks his head out into the waiting room and calls “Kogane; you’re up!” before he can get the words out. Keith stands up, swinging his heavy backpack up onto his shoulder and he turns to face Lance.

“Guess I’ll see you around?”

“For sure, Golden Boy,” Lance grins, and shoots off lazy finger guns that have Keith rolling his eyes all the way into the physio room.

***

“Hey, hey,” Lance says, running into Pidge’s dorm with his bag smacking against his back and breathing hard, “sorry I’m late, there was this whole thing with taquitos and a microwaves that got real ugly an- oh, hey Keith.”

Keith looks up from where he’s sitting crossed legged on Pidge’s bed, clearly amused. 

“Hi.”

Pidge rolls her eyes as Lance falls into a heap on her floor with a loud thud. He lays there for a long moment, unmoving, before she reaches down from her bed and pokes at him with her foot.

“And what are Hunk and I? Chopped liver?”

“I wasn’t expecting Keith to be here; I knew you guys would be. Which, thanks for keeping me in the know, guys. We don’t have a group chat for no reason,” Lance says in a way that his mother would call _saucy_. Hunk twists around from where he’s situated at Pidge’s desk and looks apologetic.

“Sorry, buddy. I thought Pidge told you.”

“All is forgiven,” Lance says easily with a wave of his hand. He lays on the floor for a moment longer before sitting up with a groan. The small dorm is already warm from all the people crammed into it. Though the window is open, it’s not doing much to help the situation. “What are you guys working on today?”

“Keith and I are doing, surprise, physics. Because if Sendak isn’t assigning us homework, he’s giving us useless assignments,” Pidge says as a scowl emerges on her face, scrunching her eyes up behind her glasses. Keith looks equally pissed off as he scribbles something in his binder.

“I’m doing math,” Hunk adds after a beat, holding up his textbook for emphasis.

“Does that mean you’ll be okay with helping me with calc in a bit? Because I’m so lost in that class I couldn’t find my way to an answer if you gave me a map,” Lance jokes, beginning to pull his own work out of his bag, which may or may not have a slight odor of taquitos. 

“Yeah, of course man!” Hunk smiles, then turns back around to his work and starts entering things into his calculator. Lance stares dolefully at his work before opening up his textbook and diving in.

He feels pretty accomplished because it takes him a good seven questions before he’s hopelessly confused by what the question wants him to do. Everything he’s tried hasn’t matched the answer in the back of the book, and he’s run out of ideas. He groans in frustration as he erases yet another incorrect attempt from his paper.

“Give me a minute, I’ll come take a look,” Hunk says without turning around. He’s hunting through his notes, clearly trying to find the definition or example for something he’s stumbled across in his own work. He and Lance aren’t in the same class, and Lance has been mourning that fact since the semester began in January.

“I can help you, if you want,” Keith offers, looking up from where he’s been sat silently on Pidge’s bed this whole time. “I took calc last semester so I might be able to help.”

“Are you sure? Because that would be awesome. No offense, Hunk. I can see you doing your own thing over there, and I don’t wanna ruin your flow,” Lance says, peeling himself off the floor and walking over to Keith. He plops himself in between Pidge and Keith, and shows him the question that he’s having so many problems with.

“Oh! It’s this question. Yeah; the answer in the back of the book is wrong. We had a class long debate on this last semester,” Keith says, his nose slightly scrunched up in annoyance at the textbook. “You probably got the answer right before, and just didn’t know.”

“Damn, okay. Thanks Keith!” Lance stands up and goes back to his spot, skipping over the question entirely and moving on to the next one. He scribbles at it for a while before frowning at it in annoyance. This one wasn’t having it, either, and this time Lance doubts that its the fault of the textbook. He’s about to just take a break from it, or skip over it when Keith sits down next to him and makes grabby hands at the textbook. Lance hands it to him with a questioning expression on his face. 

“I finished my assignment and you look like your brain is about to start leaking steam,” Keith says as way of an explanation. He looks over the question and then at what’s scrawled messily on Lances piece of paper. He squints and looks back and forth between the two for a moment.

“You wrote down seven instead of two, and you need to be using this formula, even though it _looks_ like it wants the one you used,” Keith says, marking at the top of the page in a spiky handwriting that Lance thinks suits him quite well.

“Oh, damn. Sneaky bastards, these calc questions. Thanks,” Lance says sheepishly. Keith nods and hands back over the pencil. He doesn’t stand up though, just leans against the bed frame and watches Lance work through the questions. He remains on standby while Lance works through the rest of the assigned problems. When he’s done, Lance shoots him a brilliant grin.

“You’re a lifesaver, Golden Boy.”

“That was almost all you; I hardly did anything,” Keith says with a shrug, and then stands up to start putting his things back in his bag. He leaves soon after, and Pidge throws Lance a knowing look that he does his best to ignore.

***

When the practice rolls around again, it’s the most productive two hours they’ve had in a long time. They finally set to the piece to the music, and the more difficult portions seem to just click into place in a way they never had managed to do before. Shiro seems both proud and impressed with Lance and Keith. They clean up sections of the choreography that they’ve gotten lazy with, and it starts to feel like maybe, just maybe, they’ll manage to pull this off.

“Lance! Are those dead fish or your feet? Point your toes!” Shiro calls out as Keith and Lance twirl across the floor in a set of difficult footwork and turns. “Keith; floppy wrists aren’t acceptable!”

Keith mumbles something unflattering under his breath as he corrects himself. He catches eyes with Lance as they twist past each other and he pulls a face that makes Lance chuckle and almost forces him out of his turn. He wobbles but manages to save it as they sweep into the next bit.

“C’mon. Guys; you always skip the step and it throws all the counts off,” Shiro says, longsuffering as they both miss a step. Shiro stops the music and fixes them with a look.

“We’re doing a lot of work, and while I”m glad you guys aren’t actively making each other miserable anymore, this is rehearsal. You can’t keep making jokes and faces while you’re on the floor,” Shiro lectures, the air of professionalism he’s trying to exude is slightly undercut by the baggy sweater he’s wearing that has a huge, very recently acquired, coffee stain on the front, and a travel mug with googly-eyes in his hand.

“Sorry, boss,” Lance says, looking sheepish. Keith doesn’t have the grace for that, he sticks his tongue out at Shiro, but nods. Shiro rolls his eyes at them, but seems to accept it as the best he’s going to get, and turns back to the music player.

“Alright; from the top. We should have time for a few more runs if we don’t have to keep stopping,” Shiro says, sounding a little pointed. He waits for Keith and Lance to get back into their starting positions before he hits play on the music.

The notes spill out, angry and tragic, and they start off. It’s such an emotional piece of choreography; that’s clear even to Keith as he focuses on his corrections. They come to section where Lance leaps to him and he glides away, the music changing and losing the angry tones, slipping away into something more sorrowful. It’s a piece of music that Keith is painfully familiar with; he’d found it late one night when he’d spent hours upon hours digging through obscure music on youtube. There’s something about it that almost reminds him of a music box, and he can’t shake that image as he spins a series of _pirouettes_ and _fouettes_. All he’s missing is the tutu, some blush, and he could be a music box ballerina.

Then the choreography changes gear a little, playing on the growing closeness of the choreography. Keith stops springing away from Lance, and lets himself be caught; Lance grabs him by the arm and there’s a short moment where they dance together, Keith’s back to Lance but caught in his embrace. It’s almost soft, before they turn to each other, and hit their final pose. Keith stands facing the front, but his body is twisted around to face Lance, who has a hand on Keith’s shoulder and a smile on his face. The music ends, and they stop out of the pose, grinning. It hadn’t been a perfect run through; not by any means. Shiro had called out corrections the entire time, Lance had almost forgotten a turning sequence and Keith had dropped a few turns down from triples to doubles. But it is the best full run through they’ve done so far. Even Shiro seems pleased with them. 

“Good! That was your best run through yet. Unfortunately, now it’s your worst,” Shiro says, an evil smile on his face. Keith groans, because of _course_ Shiro would say something cheesy like this. “I want to try something, instead of running through it one more time. Lance; do you think you could lift Keith?" 

“Maybe?” Lance says, sounding very uncertain as he eyes up Keith. Keith crosses his arms in front of his chest and fixes Shiro with a look. 

“No. No way.” 

“Hey!” Lance squawks, looking rather affronted, “Have a little faith, Keith! I know I’m skinny, but still!” 

“No, that’s not what I-” Keith splutters, eyes cutting over to Lance, “I just meant, Shiro knows how I feel about lifts.” 

“Keith; Lance isn’t going to drop you. And if he does, I just won’t put it in. Easy as that,” Shiro says, sounding altogether much too reasonable for Keith's tastes. 

“It’ll be fun; let’s just try it,” Lance says, and Keith wants to fight him on it, but he just sighs. He gives Shiro a threatening look and just says, 

“Yeah. Alright, fine. But Lance drops me _once_ , and it’s out. You’re not going back on that.” 

“Great, okay so. I’m thinking a straight lift because that should be the easiest for you guys, and honestly I think it fits best with the tone,” Shiro says, and he walks over to Keith and Lance to better direct them. “Go over the last sequence until where you would go into the turns.” 

Keith steps into fifth position, one hand one his hip and the other extended gracefully to the side, hand flipped so his palm faces the ceiling. Lance steps in behind him, placing a hand over the one on Keith’s hip and echoing the placement of the other arm. It’s striking in the mirror as they slide through _glissades_ and other soft footwork, due to their height difference. Keith has to hand it to Shiro; he really does know what he’s doing. When they reach the point where they would split to go into their separate turns,they stop and look at Shiro, who has considering look on his face. Finally he speaks. 

“Step with your right legs into fifth, but while you do, Keith bring your arms into preparatory. Lance put both your hands on Keith’s waist while he’s doing that.”

They follow Shiro’s instructions, and Keith can feel the heat from Lance’s hands through his shirt while he tries not to squirm nervously. The last time he’d been lifted for a performance it had been a little too complicated for the students to pull off; it had been for an end of year recital. The instructor had choreographed a piece that experimented with role reversal, and while most of it had been well done, the lift had pushed it too far. Halfway through the show, Keith’s partner had dropped him on stage, and it hadn’t been pretty, and he’d been bruised for almost half the summer break. That was years ago, and she’d been very apologetic, but Keith’s trust in being lifted had been shattered.

“Keith, you’re just gonna do a regular _develope_ extension, arms into grande pose. Keep your core tight, and you should be fine. Lance here knows what he’s doing,” Shiro explains, patting Lance on the shoulder for emphasis. Keith nods, but the expression on his face isn’t exactly pleasant. He knows what to do when he’s being lifted. It’s not that he doesn’t know; it’s just that he hates it. 

“Alright, let’s try just the lift, and then we’ll do the whole sequence all together,” Shiro nods. Keith and Lance reset, Keith trying to hide how jittery he feels. 

“Five, Six, Seven, Eight. Step, and _lift_ ,” Shiro says, and Keith and Lance step through into the lift, following the previous instructions. It’s shaky, and Keith is almost sure that Lance is going to drop him before he can even get his leg fully extended, but he doesn’t. It’s fine, not exactly gracefully, and Keith lands with a thud that’s anything but elegant, but for a first attempt it’s not the worst. 

“Alright. Lance, you need to get your grip on Keith just a hair faster, it should help with the stability. Keith, focus on trying to get that leg fully extended. Your knee is still bent. We’ll work on getting that landing cleaner next week, maybe throw in a bit of a back bend, we’ll see. Try it in the full sequence this time,” Shiro says, handing out the critiques with a thoughtful expression. Keith grits his teeth and nods. They reset again, and this time flow through the whole section. When they get to the step-and-lift, it goes much more smoothly, and the landing is nowhere near as atrocious, but it still needs work before they can think about showing it on stage. 

“Better! Though I think the arms are a bit much. Try it one last time, but put your hands over Lance’s instead of grande pose, Keith. Then we’ll wrap it up. I can hear the next group waiting for the room outside in the hallway and they sound antsy,” Shiro says, the pondering look still on his face. He looks one step away from stroking a nonexistent mustache. 

Once they’ve repeated everything to Shiro’s standards, they collect up their belongings and manage to fit their way through the group that rush in the studio once the door swings open. Shiro ends up far behind Keith and Lance, scribbling notes in his binder and nearly walking into walls. 

“I”m half-convinced Shiro is trying to kill us. That was the hardest practice yet. Even my eyelids are tired, Keith,” Lance whines as they walk down the hallway of the Eris Building towards the elevators. 

“How do you have tired eyelids? That doesn’t even make sense,” Keith asks as the step into the elevator and he hits the button for the ground floor. 

“It’s hyperbole,” Lance sighs, and then makes a face like he’s in genuine pain, “which reminds me, I have a paper I have to write tonight for my English class. Ms. Haggar is the literal worst.” 

“Oh god, I had her last semester,” Keith says sympathetically with a shudder. “She always says she can tell when your write a paper the night before, like all teachers do, but she can’t. She straight up can’t. I wrote all mine at like, midnight the night before, and she never picked up on it. 

“That’s honestly the most comforting thing you’ve ever said to me, Keith my guy,” Lance says with a smile, seeming a little less worried. “I always do terribly in her class anyway, so I’m not sure it’ll make a difference, but still. Comforting.” 

Keith laughs, and the elevator doors open as he does. “Well, good luck with that. I’m gonna go bother Pidge about physics equations until one of our heads explode. See you, Lance.” 

“See ya, Golden Boy,” Lance says, shooting him finger guns as he walks out of the elevator doors. Keith makes a face, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the corny name or the corny actions that he’s beginning to think are Lance’s trademark. He hikes his bag higher up on his shoulder and walks out onto the quad, the sunshine bright and warm on his skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two guys, chilling in an elevator, five feet apart cuz they're not gay


End file.
